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iii. Atlas
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HER HAND IS still tight in Harry's under his Invisibility Cloak as they take refuge in a small, harshly lit café after changing, wand in her free hand and heart still racing.

Thea can't bring herself to listen to her friends, keeping herself fully immersed in their surroundings, worried ever so slightly that their guards have been let down, despite Hermione next to her constantly looking over her shoulder towards the door.

Thea barely notices the waitress shuffling over, as the doorbell tinkles and seems to flood her body with an icy dread. Her eyes land on two huge men in work gear entering, and she whips around to look at the others, her mouth dry and eyes wide.

She recognises them.

She can still hear their laughter, still see their smirks when she was at the mercy of Lyra. She can still remember them carting her out of the drawing room of Malfoy Manor and back to her own room. She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head, desperate for a subtle way of warning the others still whispering intensely to each other.

Then it hits her, and she catches the waitress' icy glare at Ron, just as she kicks Harry under the table and lifts her sleeve, pointing at the ominous scar disrupting the otherwise pale skin and giving the tiniest of head movements in the direction of the men.

DEATH EATER.

Beside her, she hears Hermione take in a sharp breath, which confirms she's understood, just as two identical streams of red light come just above Thea's head, exploding against the tiles on the wall that shatter on the floor. It was so close that she can still feel a sear of heat on her scalp, and she's just ready to slash her own wand in fury, when another stream of red comes from an invisible source – Harry. It hits the Death Eater closest to her, who has blonde hair and a twisted face. Thea is looking around for the other, when she catches him launching thick black ropes from the end of his wand towards Ron, so they coil around him, tight and stubborn.

Thea doesn't know what to do. She's fighting to get spells off her tongue, but her head whirls back to the summer between her fifth and sixth year, and she can't seem to pull herself out of it.

Through her cloudy vision, she manages to dive under one of the tables, just as the one next to it explodes deafeningly. A searing ring fills her ears, and she's muttering to herself to wake up, to get out of her head, but it's interrupted by Hermione's voice screaming a spell, and then a loud thud and silence.

She shivers, wiping her eyes and starting to crawl back into the room from under the table.

"Where's Thea?" she hears Harry say, fear in his voice.

"Here," she calls loudly, struggling to her feet and shoving her wand into her ponytail and standing next to him. Slowly, she lets her gaze drop down onto the unconscious body at their feet, and her stomach plunges at the sight of him. Or maybe more at the memories he brings.

"No, go away!" her throat is screamed raw as the door opens, and she keeps her eyes shut; she's ready for the agony to course through her body again, and it does, just not how she expected it to; it aches every time she hears his voice.

"It's alright, Cinders, it's just me."

"Surely they know I'm a lost cause. Surely they know they're wasting time," she whispers, her voice cracking as she rests her head against his chest and breathes in his scent that's warm and a little like honey, but still masculine and still Jude. His arms secure around her, one around her shoulders and another around her waist so his hand rests on the small of her back.

"I don't know love," is all he says, and she thinks maybe it's because he's just as helpless as her.

"Love," she repeats, glad she can't meet his eyes. "Do you love me, Jude?"

"Of course I do love," he says.

He's not sure she remembers the last hundreds of times she's asked him that, but his answer has never changed, and he knows it never will. He also knows that that is why he aches so much, but it's a beautiful ache, almost like he wants it. Or maybe he's just used to it now. He doesn't know. He doesn't know if it even matters; it's not like it'd change anything.

"I should have recognised him, he was there when Dumbledore died."

"He's vile," Thea sneers, resisting the urge to spit on him. "He was there every time Lyra or Bellatrix hurt me, and he laughed. The tables really have turned, haven't they?"

The others are so silent that she can hear the electric lights above her head buzzing, their flickering casting a feeble glow then shadows all over them. Thea is itching for him to pay for what he's done, to have him begging for mercy like she was; the power flows through her arm to her wand that's tight in her grip, which she doesn't remember reaching for. But the spell doesn't come. It's right at the front of her mind, but it can't seem to find its way into her mouth.

She thinks maybe an hour, or a week could've gone by when one of them moves, and it's Harry; she feels his hand rest on the left side of her waist, firm but gentle. His other hand trails down her right arm, to her hand that's gripping her wand so tightly that her knuckles are pasty white and uncurls her fingers so he can take the wand. She desperately wants to cling onto him like he's a lifeline.

In a way, he is.

She turns her head to look at him, his face above her right shoulder, and he speaks quietly to her.

"Don't give in to it, love. They're not worth it."

It's only now that she realises Harry has brought her away from the unconscious Death Eater, and Hermione is tending to him, with Ron right by her side.

She settles her gaze back on Harry, but she doesn't reply, just looks. He looks right back with an understanding that's clear; he knows how it feels to want to cause unthinkable damage. He chases away the numbness again, and the adrenaline, the fear, the pain of the past comes flooding back in. Harry gives a her tiny smile of reassurance, and presses her wand back into her hand.

She's about to fling her trembling arms around his neck and kiss him; she's suddenly hit with a wave of how much she really does crave his touch after pushing him away for so long. She wants to kiss him until they forget everything around them, but the moment is shattered by Hermione's voice from a few feet away, and Thea is sucked fully back into the present, glad only for the comforting pressure of Harry's hand on her waist.

"We need to clear the place – I'll take care of these two," she points at the bodies of the waitress and the other Death Eater on the floor.

"Clear up? Why?" Ron asks, as Thea takes out her wand and starts muttering spells so that the shards of glass at their feet start to fly back into the empty window panes.

"Don't you think they might wonder what's happened if they wake up and find themselves in a place that looks like it's just been bombed?" Harry says, starting to work on restoring the lights.

"Oh, right, yeah..."

Thea looks back to the exploded table that blew up right beside her, and waves her wand so that it starts to fix itself.

It doesn't take them long before they are back out in the streets, striding with purpose but not much clue on where to go.

"How did they find us?" Hermione asks the question burning holes in Thea's baffled mind. "You don't think you've still got your Trace on, Harry, do you?"

"He can't have. The Trace breaks at seventeen, that's wizarding law, you can't put it on an adult."

A shiver travels down Thea's arms; she resents that Hermione brought her thinnest coat, but keeps her mouth shut about it. Instead, she turns to Ron.

"I'm not convinced You-Know-Who has much care for the law."

"I agree with Thea. What if the Death Eaters have found a way to put it on a seventeen-year-old?"

"But Harry hasn't been near a Death Eater in the last twenty-four hours. Who's supposed to have put the Trace back on him?"

There's a moment of silence between them as they weave through the Muggles clogging the pavement.

"We need a safe place to hide, to give us some time to think things through." Ron starts once they don't need to walk in single file.

"Grimmauld Place."

Thea frowns.

"Where?"

"Don't be silly, Harry, Snape can get in there!"

"Ron's dad said they've put up jinxes against him – and even if they haven't worked, so what?"

The four are separated again by a gaggle of children that appear to be on a school trip, Harry and Hermione seemingly not noticing as they press on ahead, leaving Ron and Thea to fall into step beside each other.

"What is Grimmauld Place?" Thea asks him as they try to catch up with their friends.

"Headquarters for the Order. It's Sirius' old place, where he grew up, but it's under the Fidelius Charm so only people who know about it can see it and get in. Dumbledore was Secret Keeper until he died, so dad said that all of us who've been before automatically become Secret Keepers...including Snape, which is what I imagine those two are still arguing about. But now I've told you, you'll be able to see it, so it's OK."

Ron and Thea weave past a bus stop crammed with people, from those on their way home from work and girls probably arriving for a night out, their laughter and chatter shrill in her ears. An agony fills her when she realises that will never be her. She'll never be able to be normal.

Eventually, the two catch up to Harry and Hermione, the latter of whom takes Ron's hand and gestures for Thea to hold onto her arm once they manage to find a dark, discreet ginnel. Hermione turns on the spot and Thea feels like a hook catches her around the navel and yanks her up through a tiny tube. She can still feel the others close by, and it's not long before they tumble out into a shadowy, glum square, with huge, slim houses eclipsing the little light trying to get in.

Thea follows the others tentatively up the front steps and into the porch, Harry tapping the door with his wand and pausing. There are a few clicks and a squeak as the door creaks open, sending a shock of shivers down Thea's spine. She doesn't like this place. She doesn't like it at all.

They step into the house together, Thea finding herself coiling her arm around Ron's and keeping as close to him as possible, but the chills don't go, even as the hanging lamps from the ceiling flare to life and throw out an orange glow, that actually freaks her out even more. She doesn't like this place. She doesn't like it at all.

"I think somebody's been here."

Thea notices the upset umbrella stand to her left.

"That could've happened as the Order left." Ron mutters back.

"So where are these jinxes they put up against Snape?" Harry asks, as Thea strains to see into the disrupted darkness before her.

"Maybe they're only activated if he shows up?"

Thea's a little tempted to suggest they turn back, and find a small B&B or hotel nearby with the little Muggle money she's sure Hermione will have brought, but Harry speaks up first, stepping forward.

"Well, we can't stay here forever."

"Severus Snape?"                        

Thea lets out a loud yelp, that freezes halfway in her throat, as though her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth and her voice is stolen. A heavy cloud of air seems to douse her entire body, until she relaxes a little again, able to speak.

"What the hell?"

"That must have been the Tongue-Tying Curse Mad-Eye set up for Snape!" Hermione stammers out as they move further into the house.

Thea, however, finds herself stumbling backwards as what appears to be dust swirls around at their feet, before taking a rotting, fleshless shape that has a lot of likeness to Albus Dumbledore. She squeezes her eyes shut, wondering how on earth this hasn't frightened her to actual death, before it dissolves, upon Harry's pleading of, "No! No! It wasn't us! We didn't kill you!" leaving the four stood alone and petrified.

Hermione is crouched on the floor, Harry is coughing so much that his eyes are watering, and Ron is trembling, still latched onto Thea, but patting Hermione's shoulder with his free hand.

Thea starts to brush off the dust sticking to her arms like it's a disease.

"Mudbloods, traitors, filth, stains of dishonour, taint of shame on the house of my fathers –"

"SHUT UP!" Harry bellows, jabbing his wand in the source of the screaming, that Thea soon learns is a painting of an old, stern woman, with prominent features and a nasty sneer, that's covered quickly by curtains shutting with a flair.

"She sounds pleasant." Thea gulps.

"Sirius' mother," Harry says quietly as they move through the house.

"That...that was..." Hermione says softly, her voice wobbling.

Thea lets go of Ron's arm to allow him to help Hermione up.

"Yeah, but it wasn't really him, was it? Just to scare Snape."

Thea's heart sinks as she moves silently through the house behind the others, lighting her wand as they make their way upstairs and settle into the drawing room on the first floor. She can't stop herself from looking over her shoulder at the door, drowning out the others' conversations without meaning to, falling further and further back into the deep corners of her mind that are cold and empty apart from harsh little voices, a mixture of I don't want you to perish, I don't know love, and there's a psychological phenomenon where –

"Thea!"

"What?" she snaps awake, her eyes wide and focused on Hermione who had spoken rather sharply.

"What is wrong with you at the moment? You can't stay present for more than an hour, and it's getting dangerous and tedious. You're missing out on important things – not even including the fact that you're behind on certain matters like the Order and Harry's connection with –"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just can't help it – I'll try my best, but there's no need to be like that." She says quietly, dropping her gaze to the floor.

Hermione seems like she's about to reply, but she's interrupted by a silver shape she recognises immediately as a Patronus, that starts to speak in Arthur Wealsey's voice.

"Family safe, do not reply, we are being watched."

Ron lets out a dramatic noise of relief, that's followed by him flopping onto the sofa with Hermione, tangling her in a hug and laughing.

"Harry, I –" Ron starts.

"It's not a problem, it's your family, course you're worried. I'd feel the same way. I do feel the same way."

There's a thick silence, distorted only a little by Ron and Hermione's voices that she isn't tuned in to enough to understand what they're saying. She watches Harry, noticing his face crumple, and takes some steps towards him so they're staring directly at each other.

"Harry, what's wrong?" she says, so quietly that she's surprised he hears it.

He doesn't say anything. He just kisses her softly and quickly before muttering something about the bathroom and scuttling off before she can say anything else, leaving her stood in the middle of the room, desperate to follow him but also consumed by a strange desire to be alone, even in this place.

She spares a glance at Ron and Hermione, both still in a sort of half-hug that Thea finds rather adorable, before slipping out of the room and weaving through corridors and rooms, until one in particular catches her eye.

She waves her already illuminated wand at the lamps and watches as they roar to life, muttering "Nox," to her wand before turning to the huge wall adjacent to the door.

A tree is depicted in some sort of tapestry, its branches tailing off with small heads and names, some black scorch marks and a cursive scrawling in French that she knows straight away.

"The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black: Toujours pur. Always pure," she mutters to herself, running her fingers over the different people on it, her eyes scanning names she doesn't recognise, until it settles on one she does.

BELLATRIX BLACK is connected by a swirling, leafy twig to RODOLPHUS LESTRANGE, the hollowness of her cheeks and her empty eyes captured just as they are in real life, and she finds herself breathing in deeply, trying to keep the memories it brings under a firm lock and key in the back of her mind.

Her eyes follow down another branch that comes from Bellatrix and intertwines with one stemming from her husband until they stop at another face, another face she recognises.

They've captured him perfectly, she thinks, from the black shock of hair on his head to the curve of his nose. Although, it might be that she hasn't seen him for so long that she's starting to forget his nuances. She doesn't know which hurts more.

ATLAS JUDE LESTRANGE

The name startles her a little, but it's in a good way. She thinks, or hopes rather, that maybe he abandoned the name Atlas on purpose. It doesn't suit him. It's too...harsh for him. It's too much to live up to. The name of a constellation, the name of the man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. It's this that makes her realise that maybe it's too fitting a name for him. She doesn't know. She doesn't want to think about it anymore though, and the cold of being alone is starting to become a little too close to her bones, so she makes her way out of the room, sure to turn out the lamps and slam the door shut, probably a little too hard.

She hopes she finds the others soon. She doesn't like it here. She doesn't like it here at all.