Chapter 135

“He split his soul seven ways.”

Horcruxes, as it so happens, were a nasty bit of magic, capable of splitting the soul and storing it in objects. Voldemort had done as such, through Slughorn’s unwitting guidance — no wonder he had kept the true memory hidden, he had helped lead a young Tom Riddle down the road of villainy, however unknowingly it had been, the guilt must’ve eaten him up inside. Atlas was sat beside Hermione, the two of them leaning in as Harry sat, turned in his chair with Ron. Muffliato had been cast around them, ensuring the privacy of their conversation.

“Seven?” Hermione said, her brows furrowed.

“Yeah, his diary was a Horcrux and so was Marvolo’s ring, but Dumbledore destroyed that,” Harry told, nodding quickly, he looked around habitually and leaned in even further, “We figure maybe Helga Hufflepuff’s cup is another, and Slytherin’s Locket…Dumbledore suggested that his snake was one…”

“Nagini is?” Atlas frowned, remembering the tight coil of the beast around her body. Hermione’s hand slipped into hers, squeezing gently. “That leaves one.”

“Something of Gryffindor’s or Ravenclaw…” Ron filled in, and Harry nodded. Flitwick walked over, and the four dispersed back to their desks for a moment until he disappeared to the back of the class. They came together again, wine glasses wobbling atop their desks. Atlas and Hermione’s were filled with a deep crimson, whilst Ron and Harry’s remained vinegar, a murky brown.

“And Dumbledore said he knows where another one is?” Hermione asked.

“He thinks he does, he’s trying to confirm it,” Harry nodded. Atlas sat back in her seat, fiddling with her wand quietly. The method of making a Horcrux was horrifyingly simple, though barbaric; she supposed, but murdering someone was commonplace in war. She glanced down at her hands. She herself had taken lives; had her soul suffered? Maybe it was damaged. 

Flitwick came back, praised Hermione and Atlas for their work and then turned to watch Harry and Ron attempt the same. There was a loud bang and an explosion — the liquid in Ron’s cup had evaporated, smoke curling into the air. It smelled horrific.

By the end of the lesson, Atlas was still quiet, shouldering Hermione’s bag with her own as they petered out of the Charms into a blessedly free period, Ron and Harry were talking the logistics of destroying a Horcrux whilst Hermione turned a page of her Transfiguration book with her thumb, her other hand intertwined with Atlas’s. 

A thud echoed in the back of Atlas’s mind, a meaty squelch, blood spurting across her face, warm and thick. She saw him, Dolohov, beneath her, her fists drawn back, and her jaw ached as she remembered the feeling of bone and brain popping like a grape between her sharp teeth. Murderer. She was a murderer.

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

“It’s Katie!” Hermione shouted excitedly, nudging Atlas from her reverie as they gestured ahead to where Katie was with a group of seventh-years, Leanne was hanging off of her arm tightly, admiring the side of her face. Atlas’s stomach lurched and she grinned, rushing over to hug her tightly.

“Katie,” she lifted her up off her feet. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“Atlas!” Katie chuckled and patted her shoulders.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t see you –“

“Professor McGonagall told me what happened. And besides, with what happened to you over Christmas? I’m glad you stayed safe,” Katie said and nudged her shoulder.

“How are you doing?” Hermione asked on approach, and Katie glanced at her and then at Atlas.

“I’m really well!” she said happily. “They let me out of St. Mungo’s on Monday, I had a couple of days at home with Mum and Dad and then came back here this morning. Leanne was just telling me about McLaggen and the last match.”

“Yeah, well, now you’re back and Ron’s fit, we’ll have a decent chance of thrashing Ravenclaw, which means we could still be in the running for the Cup,” Harry said and looked at Katie as if he really wanted to ask something but Atlas had already told him what Katie had told her, she hadn’t seen anyone before being imperiused.

“Don’t rush, though,” Atlas said gently before Harry could get a word in edgeways, “you’ve been bed-bound for a while, I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“So caring,” Katie smirked and glanced again between Atlas and Hermione. “Anything interesting happen whilst I was gone, Atlas? Or do I need to have a conversation with Ginny?”

“What?” Atlas’s brows twitched and then raised, “Oh! No,” she chuckled and pressed a kiss to Hermione’s cheek. “I did it.”

“You…did it?” Katie said, her eyes wide, she turned to Leanne and dramatically flung herself into her own girlfriend’s arms. “I’m dead.”

“Don’t joke,” Leanne huffed and dug her fingers into her girlfriend’s sides. 

“Seriously! Atlas!” Katie jumped back up and pushed Atlas in amazement. Atlas brushed her chest, chuckling at her excitement. “Was it a good confession?”

“It was,” Hermione said, nudging Atlas’s side. “She was very poetic.”

“Poetic?”

“Hermione,” Atlas said, pleading with her eyes for mercy. Luckily, Katie’s pocketwatch shook in her pocket, and she jolted, looking instantly regretful. Her seventh-year friends began to make themselves scarce, not wanting to be late for their lessons.

“This isn’t over, Black!” Katie swore as she ran off with Leanne to her first class back.

The following fortnight saw the best Quidditch practices since the beginning of the year; everybody was so happy to be finally rid of McLaggen and have Katie back that everyone was flying extremely well. Everyone, apart from Atlas. Atlas, who kept losing her temper far too quickly — Coote had accidentally hit her with a bludger, and Atlas had very nearly exploded on him, sitting glumly beside Hermione, who muttered soft healing charms under her breath with a very concerned expression.

The banter was getting to her as well, taking things too hard or too literally. It had been a growing thing, of course; she had been noticing how short her temper had been as of late, but since the talk of Horcruxes, it seemed to have only exacerbated the situation. She kept thinking of the crunch, the taste, she kept throwing up at night as if it were the summer all over again. Where she had slowly been settling into long, fulfilling sleeps in Hermione’s arms, she now awoke fighting the sheets, shame curling up her neck each time Hermione had to rock her back to sleep.

It didn’t help that with the coming Gryffindor V Ravenclaw match, the rival Houses attempted to intimidate the opposing team in the corridors. This had stopped around Atlas quickly when she had punched Roger Davies so hard that he lost several of his front teeth. Poppy hadn’t been happy with her, and neither had Cho, a girl Atlas hadn’t really spoken to at all.

“I’m worried about a mistake I made on Professor Vector’s essay,” Hermione said softly one afternoon, they were sitting in a window well, knees touching, Atlas’s cloak blanketting across Hermione’s crossed legs due to her skirt riding up. Atlas was feeling the faint crack of her wand, thumb pressing against the healed divot in the wood now fixed by her magic. “Do you think that if I asked her, I could make a quick change? It wasn’t even due until the end of the week.”

“I’m sure it’ll be ok,” Atlas nodded and clenched her jaw. Hermione looked across at her, her worry only worsening as she glanced around and then leaned in to kiss Atlas softly — Atlas sighed into it, eyes clenching shut as she cupped Hermione’s jaw. “Thank you…”

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Atlas, you’re having nightmares again,” Hermione sighed and shifted until she was leaning against Atlas’s chest instead of across from her. “You’re not telling me what they are, but it’s bugging you even awake.”

“Horcruxes,” Atlas whispered like it was an admittance of something damning. “I keep thinking about them.”

“…why?”

“Because I’ve killed people.”

Hermione was quiet for a second, “You’re not like Voldemort, Atlas. That’s stupid.”

Atlas didn’t reply.

“Atlas, seriously?” Hermione pulled back to look into Atlas’s dark, endless eyes. They were so dull again, “Atlas…no. No, Atty, you’re nothing like him. It was defence. It was always about defence; it has never been about murder.”

“I enjoyed it.”

“Atlas, enough,” Hermione sat all the way back now. “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to hate you? What is this about? You’re not like him, you’d never split your soul in any which way and ok, you’ve hurt people, you have killed people, but I know this, I have known this, and I don’t care.”

“I care.”

“I know, and that is why I love you. That is why you are different.”

Atlas didn’t reply again, and Hermione shook her head.

“Shall I ask Poppy to make you more draughts again? You gave the rest of yours to Parvati.”

“Yes, please…” Atlas rasped.

“All right,” Hermione said and leaned in to kiss Atlas deeply. She sighed against her mouth. “I love you so much.”

“Mmm,” Atlas nodded, “Go and see Professor Vector, I’ll be all right,” she smiled, pressing another lingering kiss to Hermione’s lips as she pulled away. Hermione shot her one final searching look before promising to see her at dinner and hurrying off to find the aforementioned professor.

Atlas glanced out of the window, fingers twitching against her wand as she closed her eyes. Dolohov could have killed Hermione, those other Death Eaters could have hurt her friends, if she had been quick enough, if she had killed Visha, her dad would be alive. Not murder, it was defence. Defence.

“Murder!” Someone screamed. “Murder! In the bathroom! Murder!”

The cry echoed through the halls. Atlas scrambled to her feet, wand at the ready, her heart thumping loudly in her ears as she ran. It was coming from the boys’ bathroom on the seventh floor, water pooled outside, tinged red, and Atlas pushed her way inside, the door slamming against the tile wall. She looked up. Myrtle had been the one crying and screaming, and there, kneeling in the water, dazed and covered in blood, was Harry.

“Harry!” Atlas rushed forward, her throat tightening as she saw Draco Malfoy, struggling for breath, choking and shaking, “What did you do!?” She dropped to her knees, hands fumbling for a moment before pressing hard against Draco’s wounds. “Harry, what spell is this!?”

“Atlas…no — I didn’t mean…” Harry mumbled.

“What’s the fucking spell, Harry?” Atlas snapped, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and shaking him hard. This jostled his glasses askew, tears in his eyes as he panicked, his face was as white as a sheet. She pushed him back, turned to Draco and pulled out her wand, trying to think of every counter-curse and counter-hex she knew, but she didn’t recognise the marks. It wasn’t a simple severance charm; this was dark magic. 

The pipes had burst from stray spells, water spewing up into the air and raining down upon them. Atlas pushed her hair up and out of her face, the wet strands obscuring her vision.

Suddenly, the door banged open, and Atlas looked up, terrified: Snape had burst into the room, his face livid. Pushing Atlas roughly aside, he knelt over Draco, drew his wand, and traced it over the deep, cursed wounds across Draco’s body, muttering an incantation that sounded almost like a song. The unending flow of blood seemed to ease, and Snape continued to repeat the words over and over. Atlas had never heard it before; her jaw clenched as he repeated the incantation three times.

“You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately, we might avoid even that…” Snape whispered and turned his gaze sharply upon Atlas. “Take him to Madam Pomfrey.”

“Me?” Atlas breathed but scrambled forward; her clothes were soaked, her hands covered in blood as she helped Draco stand and guided him out of the bathroom. He was practically limp and staggering, face ashen. “Come on, Malfoy, one foot in front of the other.”

He was crying softly, heaving each breath as if it pained him, his eyes were sunken, and Atlas could feel the bones in his back as she guided him down the hall. Students she passed stared with wide eyes, whispers and startled gasps echoing across the student body, she glowered at Crabbe and Goyle, who rushed forward.

“Move,” She snarled, eyes flashing, and against all odds, they didn’t cower. At least Draco had managed to find himself some loyal henchmen.

“Atlas, what happened?” Daphne rushed over, her eyes wide as she nudged Crabbe and Goyle aside. She followed along as Atlas trudged on, adjusting Draco in her grasp. “Atlas!”

“Vish…nngh,” Draco whimpered and Atlas stuttered over a step, looking down at Draco hanging off of her shoulder. He was blinking up at her, trying to focus on her face, “Vish…”

“Visha?” Atlas muttered as the boy went limp, she swallowed, remembering all of Harry’s claims and blinked hard. 

Daphne was on the other side now, holding up Draco’s other arm.

“There was a fight, Snape told me to bring him to Madam Pomfrey,” Atlas said. She was leaving a trail of wet and bloody footprints, getting Draco down the flight of stairs. Thankfully, Daphne rushed ahead to open the infirmary doors, and Atlas dragged Draco inside. “Poppy!” She called out as the woman in question appeared, “Snape did the counter-curse, but he mentioned dittany for the scarring, I didn’t realise it worked for cursed wounds.”

“It usually doesn’t, dear girl, but it seems Snape is familiar with whatever curse was afflicated on Mr Malfoy,” Poppy rushed forward to clear a bed, and Atlas gently set Draco down, panting softly as Poppy rushed around procuring vials and clean cloths. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

“No, no, I’m not hurt. It was Harry, they were duelling,” Atlas breathed as Daphne found a towel and tossed it over Atlas’s head. She began to rub the strands dry, using one of the towel ends to wipe the smudges of blood and pipe water from Atlas’s cold cheeks. “I’d never seen that curse before, Poppy.”

Some of the blood seeped through the crack of Atlas’s lips, and her eyes widened as she turned to throw up into a bin, flashes of that day hitting her full force. Daphne rubbed her back, looking worried as Atlas clutched the rim with such a grip that the metal seemed to contort and dent. The taste was vile, and it triggered something in Atlas she had been tormented with for the past few weeks.

“Is he going to be ok?” Atlas asked, for herself and for Harry, who – despite his reservations about the boy – clearly had not meant to kill Draco.

“He’ll be just fine, dear. Professor Snape’s speedy administration of the counter curse ensured it,” Poppy said gently as Atlas nodded and stood. The doors burst open for a second time, and Hermione rushed inside, eyes red with tears and cheeks ruddy with exertion.

“Atlas,” she blubbered and clutched Atlas’s forearms so tightly her fingertips were sure to leave bruises, her eyes were roaming all across Atlas’s uniform, breathing growing shallower and shallower as she panicked, “Atlas — blood –“

“It’s not mine,” Atlas said, holding Hermione’s wrists just as tight to ground her, “Hermione, it’s not mine,” she said again, and when Hermione began to cry, she swallowed painfully and covered Hermione’s eyes to stop her from staring at the stains. “Hermione, I’m ok. I’m unharmed.”

“I left you for a — for a moment!” Hermione blurted, a sob breaking past her lips, and Atlas was aware of the eyes on them.

“Let’s go, ok?” Atlas said quietly, stroking down the back of Hermione’s head, “Hermione…let’s go…I’m all right, I’m not hurt.”

The walk back to the common rooms was filled with detours and hiccups, wherein Atlas had to stop them a moment to calm Hermione down from a full-blown meltdown, but eventually, after a concerned interrogation conducted by the Lady’s portrait, they made it to their dorm room. Crookshanks wove in and out of their legs, yowling in concern as he scented the blood on Atlas’s clothes, but Atlas quickly but gently guided him away.

“Hermione,” Atlas crouched down in front of her girlfriend, “Hermione, this is Draco’s blood; he and Harry got into a fight.” Hermione looked pained. “Hermione, it’s not mine, I’m ok,” Atlas had to reiterate once again, guiding Hermione’s palm to her cheek and leaning into it. “I’m ok.”

Hermione’s face screwed up, and then she was crying again, simultaneously pushing and pulling at Atlas’s shoulder. She was scared, terrified. Atlas could see it in the way she shook, in the way her breaths stuttered out, mismatched and panicked. Atlas hated this, watching helplessly as Hermione fretted over her, because she knew it was her own fault, her injuries and the way she constantly put herself in danger had done this — made Hermione so afraid.

“Come here,” Atlas said and tugged Hermione back to her feet. She grabbed a towel and walked to the bathroom, tapping her wand against the shower head to turn it on. It began to warm, and Atlas stripped down, dropping her bloody clothes in a hamper to be cleaned and somehow saved by the elves. She sat Hermione down on the closed lid of the toilet and began to wash herself down, the blood trickling from her body in pink rivulets, disappearing down the plughole. “No cuts.”

Hermione sniffled as she watched, fiddling with her hands in her lap. She wiped her eyes and brought her knees to her chest to watch as Atlas showered off, washing her hair and body to get rid of the stench of iron and pipe water. The plumbing creaked and shuddered when she turned the shower off, dripping wet onto the floor, puddles pooling at her feet. She spun around slowly and then grabbed a towel.

“Draco and Harry fought. I was trying to stop Draco’s bleeding, the pipes in the bathroom were burst, it was a mess, but I had nothing to do with it,” Atlas assured as she dried herself off and changed into her underwear and bra.

“I heard people talking,” Hermione croaked softly, and Atlas sighed. She reached down and scooped Hermione up into her arms. “All I heard was you were rushing through the school covered in blood.”

“That must’ve been… a lot,” Atlas said as she walked back into their dorm room. The sheets were still ruffled from the morning, their pyjamas strewn across the floor, and a few unfinished essays clung to the end of the bed. “I’m sorry…I — I really worry you, don’t I?”

“Of course you do,” Hermione whispered, and Atlas leaned in to lie beside her, wet hair fanning out across the pillow. Hermione reached up to trace her fingertips across the scars on Atlas’s side, slowly trailing up to her face, and she pressed her palm flat against her warm cheek. “Because I love you…I worry, I always worry.”

“I’m sorry,” Atlas said again because she didn’t know how to respond. She leaned in and kissed Hermione’s forehead, pressing her nose to her hair and breathing her in to settle her jagged nerves from the encounter in the bathroom. “I cause you so much…pain.”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“Just don’t say anything, don’t think about it,” Hermione said quickly and propped herself up, “is Draco…okay?”

“…yeah,” Atlas confirmed, choosing to obey Hermione’s demand. She sat up as well, her back against the headboard and tugged Hermione against her chest. She kept peppering soft kisses into her hair, stroking her arm, “Harry used some — some curse I don’t know.”

“A curse you don’t know?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think…the Prince?” Hermione trailed off, and Atlas’s jaw clenched; she didn’t want to believe Harry would be so stupid as to not listen to either of their warnings against using random spells from books. She highly doubted whatever spell he used came with a list of consequences; otherwise, she liked to think Harry wouldn’t have used it.

“Maybe,” Atlas nodded, “shall we…go downstairs?”

Hermione seemed torn, holding Atlas tighter, but eventually nodded, releasing Atlas from her grasp.

After getting changed, Atlas descended into the common room with Hermione in tow, and Harry was unfortunately nowhere to be seen, so they ventured up into the boys’ dorm, nodding at Seamus and Dean as they passed before knocking on Harry and Ron’s door. Ron was sitting in bed, looking up at Harry, who was pacing lengths in the floor. 

The room was a mess, Harry’s bag tossed against the floor, papers sprawled everywhere, a pile of wet and bloody washing in the corner, leaving a mark on the wooden flooring. It smelled strongly of blood, and from the looks of him, the faint smell of sickness was probably Harry’s doing. 

Hermione seemed ready to chew Harry a new one, but the boy looked so thoroughly out of sorts that Atlas silently communicated to give him a moment; it didn’t matter, though, before Hermione could open her mouth, Harry was blurting his excuses, recounting the events leading up to the battle, the way he had found Draco crying, being comforted by Myrtle and the way Draco had spun around to fire off the first shot. It had descended into chaos, and from what Harry was saying, Draco had just been about to use an unforgivable when Harry fired off his own curse.

From the book. That stupid book. Harry had hidden it in the Room of Requirement, of all places. A popular destination this year. And now Harry would spend every Saturday with Snape in detention, leaving them down a Seeker once again.

“I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person!” Hermione said, unable to hold back, and Atlas sighed, but didn’t stop her. “And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“No, I don’t think you were,” Harry said stubbornly.

“How can you stick up for that book when that spell –“

“Stop harping on about the book!” Harry snapped, his temper spiking, “The Prince only copied it out! It’s not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was making a note of something that had been used against him!”

“I don’t believe this,” said Hermione. “You’re actually defending–“

 “I’m not defending what I did!” Harry said quickly. “I wish I hadn’t done it, and not just because I’ve got about a dozen detentions. You know I wouldn’t’ve used a spell like that, not even on Malfoy, but you can’t blame the Prince, he hadn’t written ‘Try this out, it’s really good’–he was just making notes for himself, wasn’t he, not for anyone else…”

“Are you telling me,” Hermione said, her voice shaking, “that you’re going to go back–?”

“And get the book? Yeah, I am,” Harry said forcefully. “Listen, without the Prince I’d never have won the Felix Felicis. I’d never have known how to save Ron from poisoning, I’d never have –“

“– got a reputation for Potions brilliance you don’t deserve,” Hermione said nastily.

“Stop it!” Atlas snapped, glaring at Harry and taking Hermione’s hand, Ron looked as if he had been about to jump in as well, his eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Hermione so quickly he looked as if his head was spinning. “Harry, you’ll leave that book alone,” she said, her eyes flashing. “I said this before, nobody good goes around making spells like that, Harry. Spells that lift people into the air by the ankle or inflict cursed wounds on a body, those are not the works of a good fucking person.”

“By the sound of it, Malfoy was trying to use an Unforgivable Curse,” Ron interjected, coming to Harry’s defence.

“He could have killed him,” Atlas said and turned to Harry, “you could have killed him.”

“I didn’t.”

“…if I see you go anywhere near the Room of Requirement, Harry, I’ll tell Snape about the book, the actual book, not a fucking copy,” she waved Ron’s copy of Advanced Potion Making around, tossing it back onto his desk. “Tomorrow, you’re going to get the team together and explain to them all why we’ll be without our Seeker on Saturday.”

“Whatever.”

Atlas’s jaw clenched, and she let out a soft breath, “You didn’t get hurt,” she said and gave him a once-over, “good…go to bed, both of you.”

On the morning of the match, Atlas had found herself visiting Draco, from afar, of course, leaning against the doorway, her arms crossed as she stared over at him. He was flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, his expression distant as a tray of untouched food sat in his lap. Draco had said Visha, or at least, he had tried to, Atlas was sure of it. She hadn’t told Harry, hadn’t told anyone, but the question lingered: How did he know Visha? That’s not including his secrecy around the Room of Requirement and Visha’s infiltration. Did he have something to do with it?

Atlas couldn’t help but doubt; he looked sick, deprived of everything, his cheeks were hollow, and his bones more pronounced. Crabbe and Goyle, whom Atlas assumed only knew how to grunt and groan, seemed to genuinely worry for Draco, speaking actual words as they coaxed him into nibbling on something. 

For another moment, Atlas remained, her brows furrowed, before her pocket watch gave an insistent ring, and she realised how fine she was cutting it. She cursed under her breath and ran down to the changing rooms. The others were already there, pale-faced and antsy; Ginny stormed over as Atlas was stepping out of her trousers to pull on her uniform.

“Where the hell were you?”

“Infirmary,” Atlas said quickly. Ginny reached out to loosen Atlas’s tie for her and then tossed all of her gear at her head. Atlas dodged with a huff of amusement, “I’ll be quick, just go and do the walk out, I promise to be out on time.”

“And let Hermione wonder where you are? She’ll be worried sick.”

Atlas considered Ginny’s words, her jaw clenching. 

“Ok,” she huffed, stuffing the rest of her undergear on before swishing her wand, the leather Chaser’s armour wrapped around her body, strapping itself on quickly as Atlas scooped up her broom and caught up to the team. She double checked everything to make sure it was on properly and hopped on one leg to turn one of her shin guards around.

“Hurry up!” Ginny hissed.

“I am!” Atlas snapped back as she tucked her broom in between her legs and hovered in the air.

“Atlas, if we win, I’ll tell you all of the things Hermione has said about you over the years,” Ginny promised, and Atlas straightened, her hands tightening on her broom as she grinned and hugged her body to her broom, her fingertips crackled, dark tendrils seeping into the wood.

“Captains, get ready!” Madam Hooch said and brought the whistle to her lips; it shrieked through the field, the quaffel soaring high into the air.

Atlas was the first up.