Chapter 39

Atlas took up a sizeable slab of steak and brought it over to her plate, whisking her wand so it was instantly cut up into equal-sized cubes. She smiled happily and grabbed her fork, stabbing it through her first bite and bringing it to her mouth. Only, before she could indulge herself in the delight, another tray popped up in front of her, holding a medium-sized ice-pack in its centre. Fobbo had somehow heard her apparently. She grabbed it and stuck it to the back of her head as she went back to her food, Hermione eyeing the sequence in bewilderment.

She glanced along the table as she ate, eyeing up the sorted first-years and making eye contact with Colin Creeevey and his little brother Denis, the boy who’d walked in with Hagrid’s moleskin around him and had actually fallen into the lake. They waved at her heartily so she quickly swallowed and returned the gesture with a smile, returning to her table gazing.

Cedric waved wildly in her peripheral so she turned to look at him, ignoring the conversation beside her as he mouthed words of worry and excitement all in one. His face kept making rapid changes. Distress, happiness, anxiety and then joy, it was quite befuddling. Ultimately, he had just wanted to know if she was ok so she gave him a quick thumbs-up which sent him back to the friends and food around him.

A clang to her right knocked her out of her searching and she turned to see Hermione quite horror-struck, a spilt golden goblet of pumpkin juice in front of her – the origin of the sudden sound.

“There are house-elves here?” She said breathlessly, staring up at Nearly Headless Nick. “Here at Hogwarts?”

“Certainly,” Nick nodded, looking surprised at her reaction. “The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred.”

“I’ve never seen one!” Hermione said.

“Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they?” Nick said with a minuscule shrug. “They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning…see to the fires and so on…I mean, you’re not supposed to see them, are you? That’s the mark of a good house-elf, isn’t it, that you don’t know it’s there?”

Hermione stared at him.

“But they get paid?” she said. “They get holidays, don’t they? And – and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?”

Nick laughed so much his ruff slipped and his head flopped off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attached it to his neck. Atlas grimaced and slowed her chewing, finding the sight incredibly off-putting.

“Sick leave and pensions?” he repeated with a hint of disbelief, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with his ruff. “House-elves don’t want sick leave and pensions!”

Hermione looked down at her hardly touched plate of food, then put her knife and fork down upon it and pushed it away from her. Atlas regarded her a moment, looked down at her own plate, back at her, to her fork and then sighed, pushing Hermione’s plate back in front of her.

“Come on, Mi, just eat it,” Atlas urged and waved a Yorkshire pudding under her nose.

“Slave labour,” Hermione said and pushed the food away, breathing hard through her nose as if to get rid of the tantalising smell. “That’s what made this dinner. Slave labour.”

“What if I told you they were…sort-of paid?” Atlas sighed and Hermione glanced up at her with a raised brow. “In sweets and books, they won’t take money so I buy them things. Minerva has told them to take breaks, even Dumbledore assures them they can leave whenever. Fobbo is my house-elf…well…I found him in the woods and brought him here but he refers to me as his master.”

The Yorkshire pudding was back beneath Hermione’s nose in seconds, Atlas going back to tempting the girl into eating. They locked into a lengthy staring competition, Atlas now grinning as she continued to tease Hermione with the food. “What was Nick talking about then?”

“He doesn’t go down to the kitchens.”

“It’s still wrong…” she took a bite and Atlas let go, going back to her own meal. “How Nick huffed at the thought of Elves having basic rights…”

“Yes well he’s stuck in the dark ages isn’t he?” Atlas muttered, taking another bite. 

It was rare but lately that had been just how she liked it, she supposed it had something to the werewolf venom coursing through her veins. Not through the bite but through the scratch. It was different, the venom in a scratch wasn’t intent on turning a person, it was something personality altering, unlike a bite that would hinder and shift your physical body once a month. It was perhaps one of the only things a werewolf could do to slightly alter the personality of an Animagus. She’d read about it before in a book on werewolves in the library for a bit of light reading.

“So…you pay them, do you?” Hermione murmured, coughing to clear her throat as she chanced a glance up at Atlas who’d just taken a huge bite out of her steak.

“No–” Hermione puffed up in frustration but Atlas quickly swallowed and waved her hands around, “–I don’t pay them per se. If you refer to it as ‘paying’ they won’t take it, it’s gifting. Fobbo has a lot of free will, he doesn’t listen to me straight away if I tell him not to do something. Like, last year in our match against Slytherin he said he would sneak away to watch me, I told him not to and guess what, he still came and watched. I was proud of him, I’ll admit.”

“What else?”

“What else?” Atlas repeated and Hermione nodded, earning a loud gulp from Atlas as she finished another bite. “Well, they do ask for things sometimes…if you don’t give it to them it won’t bother them though. If you do, however, they’ll remember you forever.”

“And you say they get breaks?”

“Yes.”

“Paid — er — gifted?”

“Yeah.”

“Do they get sick leave?”

“Well, House-elves very rarely get sick and it wouldn’t be sanitary if they remained working while sick either–” Hermione sent her a look, “–Y-yes.”

“Pensions?”

“I suppose they would but usually a house-elf works until they die…” Atlas muttered and Hermione tensed. “B-but I don’t think Dumbledore would allow that.”

“Could you perhaps…show me where the kitchens are?”

“Show you where the kitchens are? Uh, you won’t do anything, will you?” Atlas asked unsurely and Hermione smiled, shaking her head.

“I just want to confirm what you say.”

“My word isn’t enough?”

“It is but I also want to meet Fobbo,” Hermione shrugged and turned back to her food. She raised her knife and fork with noticeable hesitance but ultimately resumed eating. Though there was this look in her eye, something Atlas knows to either have disastrous consequences or spectacular ones, she felt quite excited to see what the look would entail. This clearly wasn’t over and if Hermione’s glancing to Madam Pince at the staffs’ table was any indication, she would most probably be spending quite a bit of time in the library.

This thought made Atlas audibly sigh. The abysmal rain threw itself against the dark, high glass, drumming loudly with no real rhythm. Another clap of thunder shook the very foundation of the school and the enchanted ceiling flashed just before it. Soon, the main course was finished, the golden plates holding the remains of the feast vanishing and were replaced, instantly, with puddings.

Atlas immediately scooped a treacle tart from the middle away from Ron and slid it over to Hermione, reaching for her own chosen dessert. A bowl of peach crumble and custard. She picked the cold one, the one she knew Fobbo had prepared especially for her, she didn’t like hot fruit and the house-elf knew that after being the constant cook for her before he joined the elves in the Hogwarts kitchens.

“Thank you…” Hermione mumbled, she still looked a little torn over what to do so Atlas sighed and took up her spoon, scooping some up onto it to raise to Hermione’s mouth. “W-what are you doing?”

“Eat, you’re no doubt hungry and I don’t want you getting ill.”

“I can feed myself.”

“Then do that then,” Atlas smiled. Hermione took the spoon from Atlas’s fingers and slowly fed herself, the Black watching her the entire time before starting on her own pudding. When those too, had been devoured, the platters wiped themselves clean and disappeared, leaving the tables bare of cutlery and dishes, save for the few remaining goblets that were occasionally sipped from.

Headmaster Dumbledore moved forward, the buzz of chatter from the tables ceasing at once. “So!” He shouted, smiling as he started upon them. “Now that we are all fed and watered–” Atlas smiled over at Hermione who’d crossed her arms in thought, “–I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.

“Mr Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr Filch’s office, if anybody would like to check it.”

Like anyone would do that, as if the students of Hogwarts would abide by anything Filch enforced, he was quite horrible really so most broke the rules just to spite him. To say Atlas would see a few Fanged Frisbees flying around and would hear the distant screams of those very annoying Screaming Yo-yos, wouldn’t be false. She did not envy the prefects of that year.

“As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students during times outside of curfew,” — Atlas repressed an amused smile, she was exempt from that rule for obvious reasons — “the village of Hogsmeade is also out-of-bounds to all below third year. It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.”

“What?” Harry gasped as Atlas visibly deflated,- looking crestfallen at the news. As did the rest of the Quidditch Team, they seemed all too appalled to even mouth their own opinions on the matter. A hand rubbed at Atlas’s shoulder and she didn’t need to turn around to know Hermione was the one offering her the comfort.

“This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy – but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts -“

Deafening rumbles of thunder wracked the room, the vibrations of the noise reverberating among Atlas’s bones and shaking her to her core. A few screamed, the sudden noise so unexpected it had caught them off guard while others simply winced, peering over at the open doors of the Great Hall. Someone had arrived and Atlas hadn’t even noticed, too busy dealing with the awful ringing in her ears. A con of having too-sensitive hearing.

With her hands covering her ears, Atlas glanced over to the cloaked form. He was leaning upon a long staff, drenched in the abysmal rain of the outside and limping further forward. There was a flash of lightning, illuminating his face for a second when he’d lowered his hood revealing his long, dark grey hair. 

Each step he took sent another thud throughout the room and each time Atlas felt Hermione flinch beside her but she hadn’t had the chance to notice, she was too busy grinning, so impossibly wide she looked a little mad. Atlas knew him, more precisely, her mother knew him. Alastor Moody, an Auror and not just any Auror. 

Alastor Moody was her mothers partner in the field. A man whose constant praise and approval was etched into her mind, those countless days of reading through her mother’s diaries describing her and her partner’s adventures to such detail Atlas could recite it as if she’d been there.

Professor McGonagall had been right to say she’d be pleased because she was elated, so very excited to finally meet the man her mother had so wildly reported. He looked just as described, a few additional scars here or there but otherwise exactly as she had pictured him. His face was littered in varying scars, each with their own separate story she suspected, there was a large chunk of his nose missing and his mouth looked to have been slashed some time ago, forming a permanent frown.

Though his eyes were the most strikingly gruesome of his features, one was small, beady while the other was false, large and a shocking blue colour, constantly whirling around to scour every inch of the hall. It landed on Atlas and the girl had half the mind to stand to her feet but gathered some sort of restraint and remained seated, nodding excitedly when the man sent her a curt motion of recognition as he sat.

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” Dumbledore called as the new professor checked his food for any hints of foul play. “Professor Moody.”

Atlas, as well as Dumbledore and Hagrid, clapped into the silence, the girl absolutely overjoyed as she sprung to her feet. No one joined and it ended up awkwardly quiet so Atlas sat down, slightly flushed from both the surprise and the embarrassment of being the only student to welcome the new teacher.

“Moody?” Harry muttered and Atlas turned to watch him talking to Ron. “Mad-Eye Moody? The one your dad went to help this morning?”

“Must be,” Ron said in a low, awed voice.

“What happened to him?” Hermione whispered. “What happened to his face?”

“Dunno,” Ron whispered back, watching Moody with fascination and then he turned to Atlas, leaning forward slightly. “Do you know?”

“There are multiple reasons, he’s been an Auror his entire life, it’s no wonder he’s gotten so many battle scars,” She gushed and Hermione looked between the two quizzically.

“Why would Atlas know?”

“Moody was my mother’s partner,” Atlas grinned. “They worked together because no one else would join him in the field, he was too cautious you know? Nobody could keep up with his paranoia until my mum came along.”

“No wonder you’re so excited then,” Hermione smiled and Atlas nodded heartily.

“As I was saying,” Dumbledore called out, smiling as many continued to stare at Moody in awe, “we are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

“You’re JOKING!” Fred exclaimed loudly. Nearly everyone laughed, the tension disappearing instantly. Katie threw a rolled-up tissue over at him as she laughed, the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team seeming a lot lighter than they had been when the initial news of the cancellation of the Inter-house Quidditch Cup.

“I am not joking, Mr Weasley,” Dumbledore chuckled, “though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar.”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly and Atlas smiled with a huff, leaning on her palm as Hermione moved to rest her chin on her shoulder so she could see past her.

“Er – but maybe this is not the time…no…” Dumbledore muttered, “where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament…well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.

“The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities – until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued.”

“Death toll?” Hermione whispered, looking frightened. Atlas glanced at her and smiled amusedly, noticing how appalled she looked when no one else shared her terror. She moved and instead hooked an arm around the girl, ruffling her hair in an act of comfort. It only served to annoy her but at least it lessened her anxiety.

“There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament,” Dumbledore continued, “none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself, herself or themselves in mortal danger.

“The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October–” Atlas grinned, her shoulders rising as she did. She’d get to see Fleur again, get to see Zasha. “–and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.”

“I’m going for it!” Fred hissed, his face rosy and beaming.

“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said, hushing those who’d broken out into thrilled chatter, “the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age – that is to say, seventeen years or older – will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This,” — Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, a steady buzz of outrage echoing above his usual speaking voice. — “is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion. I, therefore, beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.”

Atlas hummed in acknowledgement, she thought it was the most logical thing to do. Those who were younger than seventeen were most likely inexperienced, new and uneducated in the many varieties magic offered, so having some fifteen year old wander into the den of something deadly would undeniably end in irreversible injuries to their persons.

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he, she or they are selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”

Atlas immediately stood, gathering her sopping wet self and pulling her cloak on, glancing over to the Staffs’ table to see Dumbledore and Moody in some deep conversation. She couldn’t believe the man her mother raved about in the recounts of her adventures would be teaching her this year. 

“Come on,” Hermione’s hand curled around Atlas’s wrist gently and the Black turned to look down at her, still smiling, “we’ll be the only ones left here if you don’t move.”

Atlas nodded and followed after her happily, Harry, Ron, Fred, and George debating how Dumbledore might stop those under seventeen from entering the tournament. Atlas didn’t pay any mind to it, she had no interest in the tournament anyway, she was more excited for the Beauxbatons and the Durmstrangs arrival, as well as her first DADA lesson.

“People have died, though!” Hermione said in a worried voice as they walked through a door concealed behind a tapestry and started up another, narrower staircase. Atlas broke from her stupor and joined the conversation again, pulling her wrist from Hermione’s hold and instead hooked her arm comfortably around the shorter girls shoulder.

“Yeah,” Fred nodded but waved it off airily, “but that was years ago, wasn’t it? Anyway, where’s the fun without a bit of risk? Hey, Ron, what if we find out how to get ’round Dumbledore? Fancy entering?”

“What d’you reckon?” Ron asked Harry. “Be cool to enter, wouldn’t it? But I s’pose they might want someone older…Dunno if we’ve learned enough…”

“I definitely haven’t,” came Neville’s gloomy voice from behind Fred and George. “I expect my gran’d want me to try, though. She’s always going on about how I should be upholding the family honour. I’ll just have to – oops…”

Neville’s foot had sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There were many of these trick stairs at Hogwarts; it was second nature to most of the older students to jump this particular step, but Neville’s memory was notoriously poor. Atlas pulled one of Neville’s arms around her shoulder and used her other to seize him under the armpit and pulled him out, ruffling his hair fondly. A suit of armour at the top of the stairs creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily.

“Shut it, you,” Ron sneered, banging down its visor as they passed.

“Thanks, Atlas…” Neville muttered brushing his dusty pant legs down.

“No problem Neve. Have a good Summer?”

“Yeah, Gran won’t stop talking about you, she’s framed a few of your letters…” 

“Ah…has she now?” Atlas smiled nervously, her face forming more a grimace than anything. She couldn’t help but feel guilty, she knew Neville really wanted his Gran’s praise so it must’ve stung, or maybe he didn’t care as much as she thought he did. She really couldn’t say.

They made their way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which was concealed behind the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Password?” she said as they approached.

“Balderdash,” George said, “a prefect downstairs told me.”

The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which they all climbed, Atlas stretching her free arm above her head as she stretched while Hermione cast the merrily dancing flames a dark look, muttering, “Slave labour” under her breath. Atlas glanced over at her quietly, smiling as Hermione hurriedly bid the boys goodnight and pulled her along.

“Night guys!” Atlas called out while she could, only just catching the waves before she was dragged around the corner and taken up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. “Woah, Mi…I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh, sorry,” Hermione released her hand as they walked into their shared bedroom but Atlas quickly caught it again and placed a kiss on her knuckles, winking.

“I’ll take you to see the elves soon, so please don’t do anything stupid in the meantime,” She whispered and Hermione withdrew her hand, Atlas chuckling as she turned to her bed and started undressing for the night.

“Is that a promise?”

“Of course. Would I lie to you, Mi?”

“Probably…” Hermione smirked and Atlas pressed her hand to her chest, making a face of mock hurt as she collapsed atop her bed, only to sigh and nod in defeat.

“Yeah…but for the right reasons.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You know, I read a book somewhere and apparently–” She sat up, looking over at Hermione as she changed into her nightgown. “–Some girls call their crushes names as a way of flirting. So, what I’m asking is, Mi…do you have a little crush on me?”

A gasp, Hermione spun around, holding her hands to her chest dramatically. “Oh goodness no! You’ve found out my terrible secret! Whatever will I do?!”

Atlas muttered something inaudibly.

“What was that?”

“Oh nothing,” Atlas grinned innocently and stood up, walking over to Hermione to flick the little quill grip around her neck. “Night, Mi.”

“Night, freak.”

“Ooo, that hurt. How about you kiss me better?”

“Shove off,” Hermione pushed her face away and Atlas laughed, holding her hands up in surrender. “Honestly, you joke too much.”

“Only with you.”