• • ABOUT • •

[Atlas Caedmon]

It was a very true fact that the best intentions of a person typically lead to the worst of circumstances. Additionally it was one of those annoyingly inescapable truths, similar to birds always migrating or being unable to consume all the cookies one might like; and, Atlas decided, the case of Margot Blanchard was one of those. It had seemed a very simple and harmless thing he had done. Plucked a muggle off the streets of London using nothing but his eccentric charm, and a reanimated compatriot and in exchange she had been willing to humor both his eccentricities and his curiosity all the while keeping said reanimated compatriot the happiest he'd been since Artemis Sinistra had acknowledged he existed for the first time.

It was an excellent working relationship, a friendship even, and those were rare in his adult life. There were many things that he had intended to happen, even planned for. Being found out by the Ministry was an inevitability but he'd drawn up counterfeit documents that could have had a chance at fooling Harry Potter himself had the man not disappeared. Artsbury or whoever was in charge at the time would have steamed to a magnificent lobster red, but they would have been powerless to do much else. He had intended to see just what she was capable of in terms of what she referred to sometimes as a '6th sense'. He had intended to take her to a quidditch game, convinced that him describing it just made him sound more barmy than usual. All of these good intentions, harmless, mutually beneficial. Never in his imagining had he intended for the events that had led him to this point.

Two weeks since his good intentions had reared their inevitable hideous side back at him and he was still going over what he could have done differently. At this point, having gone over events with William several times Atlas could recall the attack with perfect clarity. He could also now see, in jarring detail every point where his actions could have changed the outcome. Jasper assured him it was a pointless endeavor, whatever rift that had formed between them seemed to have been mended but Atlas wasn't going to test it by making his friend repeat himself. It hadn't been mentioned again verbally but there was little to be done about the sheer amount Atlas simply sat and thought about it.

He could have let Will do this, Will or the Scottish woman who'd been tending to her (Will had assured her that despite being born in Scotland she displayed no communist tendencies, then he'd added the none to convincing qualifier 'that I know of') but he hadn't wanted to. It was his fault this had happened and while there had been few normative social values instilled in him as a child, accountability and responsibility for ones actions had made it into his childhood. Returning one vital part of Margot to the other was a responsibility that was his and he needed to carry it out. But he had hesitated to do it, partly out of shame and partly out of wanting to make sure she would be protected before she was removed from her near death state. It had been unlikely that Will would have taken the steps to have her memory erased, or turned her over to Level 9 for testing but he had had to be sure before he choose how to proceed.

As it was he was now standing next to her bed in Will's admittedly very nice residence. There had been very little in the way of sentient security detail, at least ones that Atlas could see. He hoped that was typical and not something out of the ordinary that Will had done as a kindness to Atlas. Anything out of the ordinary in his movements could not be questioned and Atlas in no way wanted his life to become more public than it had in the past few weeks. He could almost envision the headlines from the Prophet, something about a soul less Muggle girl that the new sexually questionable Minister had locked in his basement. It would be a disaster.

Shuffling, the box containing her soul in hand he took a seat on the worn chair next to bed, there was a home knit afghan spread over the duvet and Atlas reached his free hand out to run his hand over its edge, the wool was a bit rough but warm. Will had informed him that Margot had been given an equally unappealing class marker that night, on her arm rather than her face. There was a small bandage on her forearm, he'd been assured the mark would heal completely, but the guilt came back again. Setting the box down on the top of the coverlet he took a few breaths before undoing the clasp. A light emerged from it, like a wisp and for a moment he felt the odd, exhilarating and terrible feel of a magical vacuum in the air before the room went dark again. He didn't look at her face.

[Margot Blanchard]

Margot was in a box.

She couldn't see the box, but she knew it was there. She was on a misty plain, like a moor, with fog so thick you couldn't see the ground. There was no fog around her for two feet on either side. Occasionally, when the wind changed, she could see the fog wrap around the edges of the box and that was how she'd determined its shape. She'd first discovered it when she tried to follow the other spirits on the moor to the brilliant light she could see, far away but still calling to her. She'd smacked right into the wall, which didn't seem to be made of anything solid but was still immovable.

She'd started calmly enough, feeling around the edges and looking for a place where there was not a wall. That had been unsuccessful, and she had started banging on the wall facing the light to see if it moved. It didn't. That was when she'd noticed the other spirits, passing by her on their way into the light. Some of them had laughed at her (she knew they'd be judged and turned right around) but most of them had shaken their heads and given her a heartbreaking look of pity. After that, she'd become frantic. Her beating had become violent, and she heaved her whole body against her prison. She began to scream, and her screams echoed like across the moor in the most unearthly way.

She cried out every prayer she'd ever known, offered every promise she could think of to gain absolution. When God didn't answer, she offered her soul to Satan in exchange for freedom from the horrible box, but even he didn't want her. Finally she became convinced that Atlas was holding up the light and that the light was the mortal world she wanted to return to, so she started screaming for him. "Atlas! Atlas, come get me! Atlas!" But she got no answer from him either.

This imprisonment seemed to last for ages, lifetimes. After the first hundred years she stopped beating on the walls of the box and sunk down into a corner, weeping. One hundred years later she felt a tug from the far side of the box, facing the dark side of the moor. She stood up and took a step forward; at that moment she felt something touch her, stroke down the edge of her body. She might have recognized it as a hand once, but now it only frightened her and she stepped back, trying to ignore the pulling as it got stronger. She started to cry and closed her eyes. There was a great flash of light and she felt herself being lifted.

Everything went dark again and in the darkness Margot began to sob. It was slow and quiet at first, but her body was shaking and it was dark and her weeping became louder and faster. She tried to sit up but she had, in the eons she'd been away in that horrible Limbo, forgotten how to use her body. She struggled with it enough to fall onto her side and curl into the fetal position. She opened her eyes and saw a large, slightly blurry figure sitting by her bed. She reached out a small hand, briefly noticing a bandage on her arm, and seized Atlas's hand, squeezing it tightly.

"Atlas," she said, her voice hoarse. "Atlas."

[Atlas Caedmon]

For a time, one that Atlas couldn't have described as either short of long, there was nothing. Just the sound of a clock on the eastern wall of the room and the tiny incidental creaks that made up the character of any dwelling. There were a few brief, terrifying moments where he thought that maybe something had gone wrong. That he hadn't contained it correctly or that (as Fletcher had indicated in their last conversation) the binding spells on the side of the box had been too weak to bind the soul. It was those thoughts combined with the sense of dread they imparted that moved Atlas to finally look into her face.

No change, her eyes were still closed in a manner that would have suggested sleep had he not known otherwise. Frantic now he shifted in his seat, moving to look for a pulse, or breath, or any vital sign that might prove useful. He was just reaching forward, hand curled over ready to check for air escaping her mouth and nose when he saw the tears. To the best of his knowledge crying wasn't something corpses made a habit of doing, or we able to do.... He had read once that crying was often a natural reaction when one was coming out of a drugged sleep, something about the body's ability to form memory while in that state and the brains inability to process it.

When the sobs started he grew concerned, especially when they continued. The muscles in Margot's neck flexed and the hand that was lying on top of the duvet pressed down in spasms but her movement remained limited. The sobs grew harder, as if in frustration for her lack of progress, with a heave that looked as if it took considerable effort she managed to turn to her side, drawing her legs up a moment later. Atlas had been told that she shouldn't be in pain and if she was he had no medical training which he could use to aid her, he thought to get up and go in search of Constance but was stopped when one of Margot's delicate, freezing hands snaked up and snatched up one of his.

Atlas, Atlas.

She was blinking up and him from her position on the bed but from the tone he was unable to tell if she knew he was there or was just muttering his name because it was something familiar. Unsure of how to proceed he said nothing, more tears....well if it would help. "It's me." He extracted his thumb from the tangle of their fingers and began to stroke along the top of her hand. His eyes went to the box that had tumbled down by her feet. "I left you too long....I'm so sorry."

At a lose for what to do his free hand hovered in the space above her shoulder before settling there lightly, he didn't know if his presence would be helpful or harmful really. "Are you....? Can I....?"

[Margot Blanchard]

She felt reciprocated pressure on her hand, a warm finger moving back and forth across her skin. She blinked; her vision was still blurry, but she thought it was probably from the tears. Tears? Why was she crying? She reached up, slowly and shakily, with her free hand and began to wipe them away. Margot couldn't remember ever crying before in her life, not out of any false machisimo, but simply because things usually didn't affect her enough to warrant that kind of reaction. She held her hand in front of her face, watching it tremble with the effort she exerted to keep it there. She felt like a marionette trying to move itself.

"It's me. I left you too long....I'm so sorry."

Margot looked back up at the figure beside her. She could see him now; it was Atlas. The sight of him was so familiar it almost surprised her. He was looking at her like she'd been gone for years. Where had she been? She couldn't recall going anywhere, but from his expression she must have been away. I left you too long. Margot was confused. What did he mean? She closed her eyes and saw a bright light. She opened her eyes again. That wasn't right. She looked back at Atlas.

"What...happened?" she asked slowly. Her voice sounded rough to her own ears. She closed her eyes again and thought hard, trying to think of the last thing she remembered. The bright light was still there, but not like an actual light source. It was sort of like the spots that linger on your eyes after you've stared at the sun for too long. She felt cold. She got colder the longer she kept her eyes closed. She frowned. That was odd. Cold always meant ghosts for Margot, but there weren't any ghosts manifested in SHOP--she looked past Atlas and saw an unfamiliar room. "Where are we?"

"Are you....? Can I....?"

"I'm alright," she said, slowly sitting up. "I don't feel...bad. But I think something is different. It's very strange. It's like...everything's new." She looked around the room again. It was full of normal things, things she'd seen before: a bed, a desk, a bureau. They were mundane and she knew what they were all for, but part of her felt immensely curious about them. She wanted to touch them; inspect them. She shook her head and looked back at Atlas, examining his features; she reached up and put her hands on his cheeks. "You feel older. Wearier."

[Atlas Caedmon]

The sobbing had stopped and now Margot carefully, as if exerting a great deal of effort lifted a hand and wiped at them with the back of her palm. She then proceeded to inspect her hand as if the appendage was something that she had either forgotten was there and had just rediscovered or was something she had never seen before and was now wondering what it was doing attached to the rest of her.

Either of them were slightly disconcerting. He had been assured that aside from the admittedly very large problem of missing one soul, and the nasty scratch she’d received Margot’s body was perfectly fine. If she didn’t remember what a hand was or that she had two of them Atlas was going to have to have a rather serious conversation with Will about his relative definition of ‘perfectly fine’.

She studied her hand for a moment more and then she looked back at Atlas and this time he knew that she was actually seeing him. Recognition that had not been found in other recent check overs surfaced but the confusion remained. She still hadn’t said anything besides his name, craning his neck slightly he gave the back and sides of her head a once over. He didn’t see any large lumps, certainly none that Will’s healer would have missed….What….happened?

Questions meant the mental capacity to form coherent thought and argument, Atlas left off looking for injuries that were not there and gave his focused attention back to Margot. He was about to answer but as she closed her eyes again her lips stayed pursed and slightly parted. An expression indicating an attempt to form words, ready for action but waiting for the rest of the vital systems to sync up; for the brain to supply the right words and then for the lungs to provide the air to push them out. Not wanting to cause any hiccups in the system of interrupt the process Atlas just waited for her to finish.

Where are we? That was certainly an easier question to answer. He supposed that he should be glad that she seemed to not remember what had happened. Selfishly he wished that she did remember because it would have removed the need for him to tell her, dredging it up for both of them. So instead of telling her he had asked the obvious, or tried to in his own stuttering way.

She sat up and he saw no reason to stop her. As her gaze roved around the room she informed him of the newness of everything in sight, her fingers absently running along the fabric of the quilt over her. No doubt one that had been handmade, painstakingly, this was Will’s house after all. He was watching her face so intently that he didn’t see her hands coming up to land on either side of his face. You feel older. Wearier.

He couldn’t say why but he smiled at that, a slight upturning of his lips on each side against the still oddly cool skin of her palms. “Well….” He started, his voice low and slightly sardonic. “It’s been a hell of a year.”

He inhaled sharply, over something painful in his chest, before glancing around the room. “We’re in the home of William Channing. He’s a….” his mouth twisted up for a moment before the next word came out. “Friend. I asked him to make sure you were all right while I was in hospital. I don’t want to overstep myself but…I do distinctly remember asking that you not go into SHOP at night.” She blinked again, pausing with her eyes closed. “You don’t remember what happened?”

[Margot Blanchard]

Atlas smiled. She saw him smile, but she really liked feeling him smile under her hands. She smiled back at him. His skin was warm, but she wasn't bothered by that. Her skin was normally cold, so people always felt warmer to her. It was comforting. She let her hands drop away from his face and put them in both of his big hands. She liked that his hands were so much bigger than hers. They felt safe, like everything else about Atlas.

Margot paused, suddenly troubled.

Safe?

hospital--

"I do distinctly remember asking that you not go into SHOP at night."

Don't leave the house.

Strangers are in the shop!

Don't leave the house. Don't leave the house.

But she'd left the house. She closed her eyes again and tried very hard to recall what had happened after that. It came in flashes of images: the SHOP door, Rudolph clacking frantically, a trap door into the basement. A horribly beautiful woman--

“You don’t remember what happened?”

"I left my room," Margot said quietly, after a very long silence. "I'm sorry. I...shouldn't have done that. But you were screaming." She felt tears starting to form. She'd cried that night, too. Atlas was turning her into a crybaby. She blinked them away. "I was scared."

She looked down and noticed the bandage on her arm again. Pulling her hands from Atlas's, she unwound it and examined her arm. The wound was almost completely healed, but if she looked at it from the right angle she could still see slivers of scar tissue that spelled out a word: Muggle. Not so long ago, she wouldn't have known what that word meant; now, she frowned and looked back up at Atlas with watery eyes.

"Will I still be able to live with you?" she asked.

[Atlas Caedmon]

Her hands dropped from his face and then lilted down, airy like leaves or petals, to settle with her palms on the top of his hands. He stayed still, not wanting to move for fear of spooking her, like a small bird. Her fingers pressed down on each of his knuckles alternating between light touches and slight pressure. As if she was making sure that he was solid and actually there. What senses had she had access to in her waking death state he wondered as he observed her newly found tactile habits. Two weeks....he tried to think what it would be like to have sentience but not senses for two weeks and found that it was difficult, then he found himself hoping that perhaps it had been like sleep, rather than some sort of imprisonment. He should have stayed to question Katie Derum after he had returned her soul. He could have been more prepared.

The touches along his hands stopped as Margot frowned, lips open and parted again. More words and thoughts stuck in the pipeline. She hadn’t remembered a moment ago and now as Atlas watched her eyes squeeze shut and watched small muscles tense in her arms he knew that now she did. Their was a part of him that had selfishly and unfairly hoped that she would remember rather than him having to say it all over again but now that she did it only added to guilt that had been gradually building ever since he asked Will to keep her safe.

When she spoke she was still looking at his hands. I'm sorry. I...shouldn't have done that. But you were screaming. He supposed he had been although he had no memory of the action. I was scared. There was nothing he could say to that and so he remained silent, her hands still on top of his.

She hadn’t been looking at him and so he hadn’t seen it when her arm caught her attention. When she removed her hands from his he wondered if he had done something wrong. Then she removed the claps holding the bandage and began to unwind it. For a moment he considered stopping her and then remembered his own frantic, far less level headed removal of a similar bandage from his arm two days before and stayed still.

Once it was free she held it up for inspection and turning it she found the word, still faintly etched in the previously unmarred skin on her forearm. When she looked at him she was on the verge of tears again. Will I still be able to live with you?

“Ah.” He sat back in his chair, looking at the mark and considering what it meant. “Well....” unconsciously he brushed a hand against his cheek, where the skin still felt a bit funny, where he had had his own mark. “That we should discuss. I, I had no right to do what I did. This is all my fault and...well. There are people who can erase your memory. You won’t feel a thing, I swear and then you can go back. I didn’t think things would escalate. I am so sorry for this.” It was the kindest thing he could do but he barely got the words out. He’d done some reading, obliviating was harmless, left no damage and she could forget what had happened. “It’s all I can offer to make it right...”

[Margot Blanchard]

((PS, I usually don't do this, but I totally listened to The Hazards of Love IV (The Drowned) by the Decemberists while I wrote this, so you should totally find it on YouTube or something if you don't have it and listen while you read it.))

“Ah. Well....That we should discuss."

He was leaning away from her, and his tone of voice was quiet, hesitant, his speech halting. Margot sat watching him, lips slightly parted, her arms laying limply on her thighs, palms turned slightly up. She was absolutely still; her posture almost resembled that of a person meditating, or would have if her expression had been more peaceful. It wasn't; she was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She was in an unknown place, her body still felt a little foreign to her, and the one familiar thing in the room--Atlas--was leaning away from her.

"This is all my fault and...well. There are people who can erase your memory. You won’t feel a thing, I swear and then you can go back. I didn’t think things would escalate. I am so sorry for this.”

Margot looked down, closed her eyes and processed what he said. He wanted her to go back to the non-magical world, the Muggle world. She supposed she understood that. He believed it would be safer for her. Margot knew differently. Sure, she'd never been hurt like this before, in that other world, but that was because she'd always hid her abilities from those around her. She'd never told a soul. She'd been teased enough for being small and spacey; imagine how much worse it would have been if she'd let it be known that she could see and talk to ghosts?

People were ignorant, whether they were Muggles or wizards. From what Atlas had said, Margot knew that wizards wouldn't understand her abilities anymore than Muggles, and people didn't like what they didn't understand. Margot didn't have a place in either society; so maybe it wouldn't be so bad, to forget about Atlas and real magic and go back to living the way she had before. She started shaking her head; it was a moment before she realized she was doing it.

“It’s all I can offer to make it right...”

"No," Margot said. "No, I don't want to leave. I don't want to forget. I...I..." She struggled for the words to explain herself. She was usually very articulate, but she didn't spend much time talking about emotions. Her cheeks felt wet again. "I've never cried before," she said. "I've never had a--a living friend before, I--" She reached out and took his hands again. Her grip was stronger this time.

"Please, Atlas. You don't need to make anything right, it was my fault; I left the house when you told me not to. I'm sorry. I don't want to leave," she said. She paused and tried not to sob. "I'll go, if...if you really want me to; but please, please don't...don't make me forget you," she finished quietly.

[Atlas Caedmon]

Usually silence wasn’t something that tended to bother Atlas. His mother’s business brought in tourists from all over but though they differed in race, religion, country of origin, Atlas had quickly discovered the universal language that bound all of humanity together; they were loud. People shouted in the morning, looking for maps, asking his mother questions about the best way to get this museum or that restaurant. They had shouted at night when they were wondering what should be on their itinerary for the next day or when they were busily informing one another over dinner of what they had done that day.

He could understand the excitement for a new place but the noise had seemed completely excessive. He’d learned to relish any silence that he was able to find and as an adult he often times found it much more preferable than the meaningless conversation most people used to fill the silence that made them so uncomfortable. Now as he sat across from Margot trying to think of other ways to say how sorry he was he suddenly understood the things about silence that drove most people to find it so detestable.
It was oppressive and the more he tried to think of a way to fill it the more it eluded him. Then Margot saved him. No, The word came out firm but on the second on he could hear the waver in her voice. No, I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to forget. I…I….. His lips pressed together into a white line as he glanced up at her. She didn’t understand or maybe she didn’t care. I’ve never cried before. The flecks of water running from eyes down to chin where they took the plunge and fell to the duvet spoke otherwise but as soon as he thought that Atlas realized what she meant.

I’ve never had a—a living friend before, I She leaned forward suddenly and snatched up his hands, more forcefully than before. This time her thumbs hooked in around his and for a moment he tried to remember the last time someone had held his hands. He was shocked to realize it had been her, in the basement when she thought both of them were going to die.

Please, Atlas.. As his hands were occupied it would have been impossible for him to cover his ears so he closed his eyes instead, shook his head. Please, please don’t…don’t make me forget you. The words died out at the same time as her breath.

“You shouldn’t cry…” He extracted one hand, squeezed reassuringly with the other and dug in the side table to the bed for a moment until…Bingo! Extracting a handkerchief he pressed it into her hand before reassuming his grip. “Make you look like you have fish eyes later. I’m sorry to have caused that first for you.”

“I…” He worried the inside of his cheek with his teeth for a moment, collecting the argument he had been working on for the past week, in-between rebuilding Jasper’s appliances and reading. “I don’t want you to leave. And…and the Ministry won’t make you go back…this has all been very quiet though I don’t know how long that will last. But I don’t know if you understand exactly what this situation is. You should hate me, you have to realize that?”

“I,” Honestly now, “ I thought you would hate me. So that’s what I’m prepared for. I didn’t think you’d want to stay, I don’t know if you should.”

[Margot Blanchard]

“You shouldn’t cry…Make you look like you have fish eyes later. I’m sorry to have caused that first for you.”

Margot looked at him, confused for a second, before starting to laugh. It was the same laugh she always had: quiet and brief, like she was laughing all to herself. Laughing was the last thing Margot ever expected to do, not just in this situation but any--it just wasn't a frequent occurrence for her, although it had come up more often since moving in with Atlas and usually at Rudolph's expense. But the comment seemed so inappropriate for the conversation; at the same time, though, it was so reassuringly Atlas that she couldn't help but be a little relieved. Apparently, that relief thought it best to manifest itself in laughter.

She took the handkerchief and wiped the tears off of her cheeks. When she finished she stared at it for a moment, unsure of what to do with it. After a brief deliberation she balled it up in her hand and held onto it. She was practically a leaky faucet at the moment and she wanted to be prepared, should it happen again.

“I don’t want you to leave. And…and the Ministry won’t make you go back…this has all been very quiet though I don’t know how long that will last."

The young girl's heart jumped at his words. He didn't want her to leave after all. No one was going to make her leave or erase her memories. But Atlas was still very grave. Margot squeezed his hand. Something else was troubling him. Again, he seemed heavier to Margot, weighed down by some assumed responsibility. She bit her lip, waiting for him to continue.

"But I don’t know if you understand exactly what this situation is."

She didn't. That was true. "What is it, Atlas? Why did this happen? Did it have something to do with...with me?" she asked, putting a hand on her scarred forearm. She hoped that wasn't the case, suddenly feeling a little sick. If it had been her fault--but that couldn't have been it. They would have come after her. "Nevermind that. Please, tell me. I want to understand."

"You should hate me, you have to realize that? I, I thought you would hate me. So that’s what I’m prepared for. I didn’t think you’d want to stay, I don’t know if you should.”

"Why would I hate you, Atlas?" she asked. She shook her head. "Hate takes up too much energy. It's pointless and a waste. Hate ruins your soul and weighs it down. Souls full of hate rarely cross over." She sighed, remembering some of the hateful ghosts she'd come across. They were always stubborn, and usually strong, strong enough to be known to non-mediums. That was why people were afraid of ghosts; they could only experience the bad ones. "I would never, could never hate you, not when you've been so kind to me," she said.

[Atlas Caedmon]

She didn't. That was true. "What is it, Atlas? Why did this happen? Did it have something to do with...with me?" she asked, putting a hand on her scarred forearm. She hoped that wasn't the case, suddenly feeling a little sick. If it had been her fault--but that couldn't have been it. They would have come after her. "Nevermind that. Please, tell me. I want to understand."

Margot’s expression morphed into one that expressed earnestness as she rapidly fired off a series of questions concerning just how this had all happened. Her hand drifted back to his forearm and the silvery mark that was there, you couldn’t see it very well in the dim lighting and Will had made assurances that it would go away completely. Atlas didn’t really think of Margot as vain but, “The brand will fade, that’s what they’ve been telling me at least. If not,” He brought his index finger up and turned his cheek tracing the loopy ½ sign that, like Margot’s was wispy silver. “At least we match.”

Why would I hate you, Atlas? In his head, unbidden, he began to compose a short list. I almost got you killed by a mad magical creature terrorist and her sociopathic Irish accomplish, I made you witness things it’s likely you’ll never be able to unseen, I hog all the honey, I sometimes forget that I left the singing pitcher plants outside your door until you trip on them at 3 am and have to quell a full choral rendition of “Ain’t misbehaving” . At that he decided that he was scrapping the bottom of the barrel. Souls full of hate rarely cross over.

Caught out of his musing he blinked at her owlishly. I would never, could never hate you, not when you’ve been so kind to me. his eyes went to the ground at the same time that he realized the statement had embarrassed him. “I don’t know if you should look at it as a kindness…” He recalled Jasper jokingly referring to her as his pet Muggle and over the past week he had wondered if maybe that assertion had been true. “I’m glad not to be hated, it appears to have very negative results on both sides. Very glad.”

“And no, no it wasn’t your fault. Not even in the slightest actually. They didn’t even know you there living with me. What they did to you, and to me, the markings, those were just meant to throw off any of the Aurors on the case when they found the bodies.” It was easier to talk about it if he pretended he was talking about someone else, or the weather. Weather with thoughts and feelings. “I’m half blooded…well half blood ish,” He waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter, anyway, had this been a blood crime they would have gone for someone else. It was just a convenient cover up, especially when they saw you.”

“They were after a spell actually. A very powerful on, the same one they tested on you to make sure what they tore out of my head was correct. Did I ever explain the Unforgivables?”

[Margot Blanchard]

“The brand will fade, that’s what they’ve been telling me at least. If not, at least we match.”

Margot stared for a second, then reached up and traced the markings as he had done. Her fingers lingered there, fluttering in and out of contact with his skin; her hand was still trembling slightly, but it wasn't as noticeable as it had been. Atlas sat patiently under her touch, and she smiled at him. She knew he wasn't too fond of physical contact; normally, she wasn't either, but it was comforting to feel him and to know that he was real. She figured he knew that, and that was why he was allowing her to touch him so much.

“I don’t know if you should look at it as a kindness…”

Wasn't it kindness? Margot had always considered it such, but her judgment had mostly been based on the knowledge that he had never treated her unkindly. He had given her a place to live; he provided for her; he taught her new things; he talked to her. Wasn't that kindness? There were a lot of rules to follow, but that was understandable. It was a new environment for her, and one somewhat precarious for someone not familiar with it. She was happy living with him, happy and content. She felt settled in a way she never had before, anywhere else. She wanted to tell him that, but he was talking again. She would wait.

“And no, no it wasn’t your fault. Not even in the slightest actually."

Margot nodded. Something she had learned about the wizarding world was that the blood issue--a rivalry, almost--was a sore subject never far from the surface. All it took was the slightest provocation and dormant prejudices could rise up as though they'd never been rationalized away. The cover-up probably served a dual purpose: throwing suspicion off the real attackers while causing an uncomfortable stir in the public. It happened all the time, a common tactic through history; Margot remembered learning about it.

“They were after a spell actually. A very powerful on, the same one they tested on you to make sure what they tore out of my head was correct. Did I ever explain the Unforgivables?”

Margot didn't remember any spell, but her memory was still fragmented, so she wasn't surprised. But what kind of spell could have put her in the awful place she'd been? Were they common? "I think so, once; the first time you explained to me how dangerous everything was," she said, smiling slightly. "They're three curses whose use is forbidden."

[Atlas Caedmon]

At the mention of Unforgivables her eyes took on a studious glint and she sat up a bit straighter. I think so, once; the first time you explained to me how dangerous everything was. They’re three curses whose use is forbidden.. The sentence, complete with scholarly diction and delivery could have just as easily come out of one of his professors mouths as from the mouth of the Muggle seated next to him. Outwardly she might appear waif like, even spacey, but her mind had a great capacity for absorbing information and Atlas had found that when imparting his own information to her he rarely had to repeat himself.

“Exactly correct. My DADA professor would have been proud, he was always very insistent that you use the exact book definition, suffered from a bit of a lack of imagination actually.” His lighter tone tapered off, “ Up until very recently there were three Unforgivables, named because of their effects on the people their cast on. One to torture,” He tried not to think of Cal. “One to control, and one to kill.” He considered how to proceed, in the end deciding that if she wanted to know then that was her right.

“Then a man named Edward Garrow, you might have seen his name in the paper? Well, he made another one. More specifically he hired Ministry stooges to develop another. I don’t know what his original intent was but the spell, from what I’ve seen and researched….it severs the human soul from it’s body. It’s a fourth unforgivable spell, or it will be once its finally classified and acknowledged.” He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Usually he couldn’t keep quiet about new advances, his own research or others, he loved to tinker but this was different. “A few weeks before I met you I came into possession of one of the soul’s Garrow had tested the spell on…I wanted to find out who it belonged to and try to see if I could find a way to reverse the spell.”

“That’s what I’ve been working on in the time you’ve been living with me. It became something of an obsession actually. The first person I saw the spell used on, he died.” He swallowed. “That was my fault as well more or less. Someone said that his soul wasn’t strong enough to withstand it, I was worried the same might have happened to you.”

“The spell was what they were after…a human soul…it’s hard to describe I think but it’s powerful. It bends magic around it, sucks wizards dry, the applications for it are limitless but its uncontrollable and….” He struggled to find a word. “Obscene.”

“I don’t know how they found out I was working on it I’ve only told a few people…doesn’t matter.” He ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “Attacking you was cowardly and I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to help you. And I, I didn’t know how you’d come out of the spell, so I left you there. In that box over there, Will offered to let you, out I guess. But I wanted to do it, I didn’t know if you would be you anymore.”

[Margot Blanchard]

“Exactly correct. My DADA professor would have been proud, he was always very insistent that you use the exact book definition, suffered from a bit of a lack of imagination actually.”

Margot beamed (in so far as she could ever be described as "beaming"), and decided not to mention that she didn't know what DADA stood for. It was something she could always figure out later. Instead, she sat and listened, her hands resting motionlessly now on her thighs. Normally, when something was being explained to her like this, she made an effort to nod throughout so that the person could tell she was listening. She'd been pleased to discover that Atlas had not needed the gesture, and always knew she was listening.

Her pleasure slowly died while Atlas was explaining the spell. It seemed that the spell essentially created ghosts, and the spellcaster would then imprison the ghost, trapping it and not allowing it to move on. Margot remembered the box with the fog swirling around it. That was what had happened to her, then. She had died and not been allowed to cross over. She shook her head, a small, horrified motion. Being held like that; it was the worst punishment, the worst fate Margot could imagine. It was an eternal imprisonment; one couldn't die to escape it because one was already dead.

“The spell was what they were after…a human soul…it’s hard to describe I think but it’s powerful. It bends magic around it, sucks wizards dry, the applications for it are limitless but its uncontrollable and…obscene.”

"Souls are powerful. Without our souls...well, I guess you see what happens. Your body continues to live, but there's nothing there otherwise. It is what we are, our essence," Margot said, nodding. "I think--I think there must be something in a wizard's soul that draws magic. Like with mediums; there's something about our souls that attracts the dead, makes us more open to them and them to us. Wizard souls must attract magic from somewhere; maybe from the environment, maybe...another, I don't know, dimension or plane, like with spirits." She fell silent, thinking, but was pulled from her thoughts again as Atlas resumed speaking.

"And I, I didn’t know how you’d come out of the spell, so I left you there. In that box over there, Will offered to let you, out I guess. But I wanted to do it, I didn’t know if you would be you anymore.”

Margot looked to where he gestured and saw the unobtrusive box sitting there, open and empty. She reached toward it and felt the cold air coming off it before she touched it. She pulled her hand back quickly. It seemed to be leeching the warmth out of the air, and along with it the life in the room. She tangled her fingers in the knit of the afghan to warm them.

"I did forget who I was," she said. "I was there for...it seemed like forever. I was trapped in this box I couldn't see. The fog rolled around the edges. That's how I could tell. And they all just...floated past me, into this great bright light I couldn't reach." She felt cold again, and she reached for Atlas's hand.

[Atlas Caedmon]

One of Margot’s fingers stretched out across the afghan and snagged on the side of the box, tugging it toward her. The expression on her face was something you might see when a person was reaching for a snake or some other dark damp thing that creeped and crawled, something that could bite. It was possible that it could, Jasper had found being near the box completely alarming while Atlas just found that prolonged exposure had left him feeling drained, weak,. He hadn’t considered the effects that it might have on Margot with her unique gift.

Her finger made contact with the box for a mere few seconds before she withdrew it as if she had just been stung. Which, he supposed based on what she had just said about mediums and the dead, might actually be an excellent way to view it. Once her hand was back at her side she cocooned it into the blanket, wrapping it in the warm material.

I did forget who I was, I was there for….it seemed like forever. Atlas reached across the space between them and plucked up the box, depositing it out of sight underneath the bed. I was trapped in this box I couldn’t see. The fog rolled around the edges. That’s how I could tell. And they all just…floated past me, into this great bright light I couldn’t reach. As she finished she plucked up his fisted hand again and he unfurled his fingers to accommodate her.

Her description was disturbing but at the same time fascinating. There were questions that he was eager to ask but very few of them seemed appropriate. “You said that it felt like forever…it was two weeks. And you couldn’t escape the box? The spell must hold you there…I don’t know if it would dissipate without containment….” He blinked himself back to reality and pushed further questions he might have back. “Sorry….They didn’t hurt you did they?” The question seemed stupid as soon as he had said it and he thought for a moment before trying again.

“I mean…aside from your arm and the spell. The Irish man in particular was generally hostile. If anything was done to you there are healers on hand that can take care of it…I’m glad that I had the basement reinforced four years ago, otherwise the basement might have collapsed during the explosion. I’m sorry that I had to leave you.” Now he was rambling, taking in breaths in strange places. “I had to apparat and I wasn’t sure I would make it with just myself, I would have splinched you horribly. So I put you in the box, it was all I could think of. I’m sorry I couldn’t come back for you myself and that it was so horrible and for just….everything. And I know you said that it didn’t matter but it does.”

"And I don't want you to leave. Neither does Rudolph actually he seems to miss you terribly..."