#atticus lestrange

So Atticus met with Cecelia during their nightly Prefect rounds to broach the subject. When he arrived, he found Cecelia already involved in conversation with Trevor Urquart, a Hufflepuff in their year -- and it wasn’t a particularly friendly conversation either. 

“And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” said Cecelia. 

Urquart frowned deeply. “Well, it’s just...with who your family is, and who his family is -- you really can’t think your uncle would approve.”

Atticus came to an abrupt stop a couple yards away, just out of sight around a corner. 

Cecelia’s uncle? What wouldn’t he -- ?

“... I mean, he chucked 'Strange’s father’s cousins into Azkaban for being Death Eaters. I reckon you hanging out with a Lestrange wouldn’t be good for his reputation...especially after what happened with his son...”

Atticus’s lips came together very tightly. 

Of course. Cecelia’s uncle was Barty Crouch, Sr. -- the head of the court who sentenced Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastian to Azkaban. The memory of his father’s resentful glare over his shoulder at Crouch when he passed through the Ministry once with Atticus rippled over the Ravenclaw Prefect’s mind, and it made him feel ill.

Father would be pretty upset if he learned who I’ve been spending time with too, he thought to himself. 

Atticus dreaded even thinking of what his father would do, if he found out -- he’d probably forbid him from ever talking to his friends again...

“Who I choose to spend my time with has nothing to do with my uncle or his reputation,” said Cecelia sharply. “Especially since Atticus is nothing like his family. And I’ll kindly remind you not to call him by that awful nickname either -- it’s horribly shallow of you.”

Atticus felt the invisible hand that had been squeezing his heart in a vice grip loosen significantly, hearing Cecelia actually defend him. Urquart frowned deeper still. 

“Oh c’mon, Ceci -- I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just what everyone else calls him, that’s all. Well, except for Robert Bellamy, but I don’t reckon Lestrange wants everyone to call him by that pet name -- ”

“I think it’s high time you scurry on off to bed, Trevor,” Cecelia cut him off very coolly. “It’s well past curfew, and I have my Prefect rounds to finish. Go on now.”

Urquart opened his mouth as if to say something else, but Cecelia crossed her arms and gave him a very pointed look. 

Sensing the conversation was over, Urquart gave a low, loud sigh and trudged off, right past Cecelia and then around the corner where Atticus had been standing. The Hufflepuff boy was startled to see the Ravenclaw Prefect. Atticus fixed him with a rather pointed look of his own, before walking past him and around the corner. 

“Cecelia.”

Cecelia brightened at the sight of her fellow Prefect. “Hi, Atticus!”

Atticus attempted a smile, but it didn’t feel genuine. 

Fortunately, although she clearly noticed the strain in his expression, Cecelia didn’t immediately address it. Instead, after shooting a quick look at the corner Urquart had departed around, she smiled up at Atticus and took his arm, leading him off. 

“Come on -- let’s start on the east side of the castle and make our way back. It’ll be easier for you to get back up to your dorm when we’re done, if we finish on the west side of the castle.”

Atticus was glad for the increased distance between them and Urquart -- and for Cecelia’s talent for knowing exactly what to do to make people feel more comfortable. 

It was only once they were a healthy ways away that Cecelia spoke again.

“How much of that did you hear?” she murmured, her hazel-green eyes looking concerned.

Atticus glanced away. “...Enough.”

Cecelia frowned deeply, bringing a hand onto Atticus’s shoulder. 

“I meant what I said, you know,” she said firmly. “I don’t give a damn about your family. None of us do. Why would we? I mean, you don’t hate Rob for his -- and plenty of people looked at Barty and me funny when we first became friends with Rob too, at first...”

She offered Atticus a comforting smile.

“So don’t worry about what that clod Trevor said. People like him will get over themselves soon enough, and then they’ll find some other molehill to make a mountain out of...”

Atticus felt himself smiling slightly, feeling encouraged. 

“Thank you,” he said lowly. “Not just for that, but for what you said before, too. It was good of you, to stand up for me like that...”

His smile faded.

“...But aren’t you at all worried, about what your family will think about you spending time with me? I mean, sure, maybe your uncle’s opinion doesn’t matter as much to you...but I am a Lestrange. Won’t your parents be upset?”

Cecelia rubbed behind her neck uncomfortably. “Oh sure, they...were a little unsure, when I first wrote home about you...but they’ve been okay about it, all things considered. And well...you’re my friend. I care about you. When I’m at home...well, I have to play ‘big sister’ all the time. What I want, what I need -- that always comes second or third, if at all...”

She offered her best smile. 

“But when I’m with Rob...with you and Barty, here at school...I can put myself first! I can have fun and do what I want, and just be me. ...That means a lot to me.”

Atticus smiled a bit more fully too. He understood what she meant. Before Robert had reached out to him...well, his existence had been very lonely. Atticus wasn’t really sure how to do this “friendship” thing at all, but...well, upon getting a taste of the fun, the warmth -- the closeness that came with it...he found he really liked it. He liked feeling connected to someone else...like he wasn’t alone. 

Cecelia was lucky her family was so understanding. Atticus wished he could be sure that his father would react the same way, if he ever told him about his new friends...

“...Me too.”

The two came upon a bench under a window. Cecelia strolled over to it and sat down -- she patted the spot next to her, and Atticus followed suit. 

“I’m really glad we became friends, Atticus,” she said, beaming fully. “I remember when I first collided with Rob in first year, one of the very first things I heard him say about you is that you should be smiling -- that you didn’t look ‘right’ somehow, looking so serious. I just thought it was awfully sweet of Rob to say, at the time -- ”

Her eyes sparkled as her pretty white smile spread enough to encompass her whole face. 

“ -- but now that I’ve seen you smile for real -- like when you and Rob were teaching together, back in Binns’s class -- I agree with him. You should smile like that all the time!”

Atticus felt his cheeks burning, but his heart was too -- like it had swollen up to three times its normal size. He bit back a happy laugh despite himself. 

“Well, I daresay I will, if Bat has his way. Got to keep me from getting too ‘grim,’ doesn’t he?”

Cecelia giggled. “Definitely.”

Atticus’s smile loosened slightly as he looked down at his clasped hands in his lap. 

“...Cecelia...may I ask you something?” he asked more seriously. 

Cecelia tilted her head. “What?”

Atticus bit his lip. 

“...Bat and I were in the library earlier today, and...well, we were talking about our theory, that our dreams are what’s going to happen, sometime in the future. We both agreed that even if that’s true, the future couldn’t possibly be set in stone...but Bat thinks that our dreams must be...warnings, somehow. Some sort of magical premonitions of things we have to prevent from happening...”

Atticus’s blue eyes became a little smaller, darker. 

“...But...I just don’t know. Bat’s seen a lot of scary things...he’s said as much, anyway, though he hasn’t gone into much detail...”

“He never does,” Cecelia said solemnly. 

Atticus straightened up slightly to look at her. 

“Rob’s told us some of the stuff he’s seen in his dreams,” said Cecelia, and her eyes were very sad, “but he’s always holding back. I know he is. It’s just like when he disappears to be by himself, when he’s upset. He sees his dreams as a problem he has to fix -- something he doesn’t want to burden anyone else with, if he can help it. Even though he knows Barty and I have bad dreams too, and he knows they frighten us...I think our dreams aren’t half as bad as his, and I think he knows it. But rather than make us feel bad, hearing about all the terrible stuff he dreams about...I guess he sees it as more practical to come up with possible explanations for what our dreams mean, and solutions so that they don’t bother us any more, rather than talk about his feelings...”

Cecelia’s eyes softened, becoming rather strained. 

“He’s so modest, even about his own pain,” she murmured. “He won’t even take the time to complain -- he just puts on this calm, cool air and soldiers through.”

Atticus considered her for a moment, his eyes squinting ever-so-slightly. 

“It is admirable, in a way,” he acknowledged. “I just wish he didn’t have to soldier through...that he didn’t have to have such a hard time of it.”

He sighed. 

“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps my dreams aren’t as bad as his. Sure, they’re a large part of the reason I’ve only had a few restful nights’ sleep in my entire life,” he added as a light scoff, “but...well, even though a lot of my dreams are sad, it’s not all bad. There are other feelings too, besides the sadness...”

He looked at Cecelia for approval. 

“And well, you, Barty, and Bat -- you’ve all seen each other in your dreams before, right? Are they truly all terrible?”

Cecelia looked down at her lap. 

“No,” she admitted softly. “No, they aren’t. In fact, some of them -- ” her lips curled up in a weak smile, “ -- some of the dreams I have are ones I always look forward to, when they start.”

Atticus blinked in surprise. “Really?”

Cecelia’s smile broadened. 

“I don’t remember all the details,” she confessed, “but there’s a ball. A big, beautiful ballroom, with swirling gowns and festive music. I think it’s Christmas! I’m pretty sure there are fir trees. And I remember dancing...dancing in lively circles around this carefree man with a long ponytail of dark curls and bright black eyes...”

Her face was flushed with fondness. Atticus immediately guessed why.

“It’s Bat,” he said at once. “Isn’t it?”

Cecelia beamed and nodded. “Mm-hmm -- I’d know his face anywhere. I think I’ve seen Barty at the party too, though I’m not sure...it seems like him. Though I have trouble imagining him with such long hair -- Rob seems much more the type...”

She laughed, but after the first chuckle, it slowed and quieted in her throat, before slowly dying away to nothing.

 Atticus tilted his head to look at her better. Upon noticing the concern in his face, Cecelia tried to smile again. 

“I think I see your point, Atticus,” she said. “If there’s good along with the bad, in what we see...how can it be a warning, to stop some terrible future? ...But at the same time...I think I see Rob’s point, too. Even if there’s good along the way...if the end result is tragic for all parties...are those good times worth it? Do you follow the same path regardless of the ‘bad outcome,’ just to enjoy the good while you can? Do you throw away the short-term good, to protect yourself and the ones you care about? Can you even try to prevent the bad and keep the good, even if they’re so closely linked? Wouldn’t that bad outcome stain all the good that came before it...make it so that even that good ends up just as painful to remember as the bad is?”

Atticus crossed his arms, considering this. 

It was certainly a thorny issue. Perhaps Atticus’s own dreams had been less traumatic than the others’, holding this mysterious figure he felt this bizarre connection to and felt this intense need to know the secrets of again -- but Robert had admitted that he’d seen destruction and death. Barty had had nightmares of being unable to save Robert from getting hurt. Was his desire to unravel the mystery of this man who so strangely resembled Barty truly worth that? Could he live with himself if other people got hurt because of it -- if anything happened to Robert because of -- ? 

But if we don’t get to the bottom of things, Atticus thought stubbornly, how would we even know there’s no way to preserve the good and prevent the bad? How would we know for sure that the only way to stop those terrible things Bat and Gilbert have seen from happening is to make it so everything we’ve seen doesn’t happen? 

His blue eyes flashed with fresh determination. 

The future isn’t set in stone -- every book I’ve read says so. I can't believe there'd be no way to make the future we’ve seen better, without throwing it all away. If we could just understand it -- get to the bottom of the mystery of what our visions mean, surely we could use that knowledge to prevent anything terrible from happening...

Cecelia leaned back slightly, her hand propping her up as her gaze drifting up toward the ceiling. 

“As far back as I can remember,” she said softly, “I’ve had this nightmare. In it, I open the door, and standing in front of me is this massive man -- taller than anyone else I’ve ever met, with scraggly hair, sharp, overgrown nails, and filthy, blood-stained clothes. And red eyes -- horrible, monstrous red eyes...”

Atticus straightened up noticeably. 

“I’m completely eclipsed in his shadow, and all I can think of is to scream, but no sound comes out. I can’t even move. Suddenly he’s in the room with me, and...he’s just shouting. I don’t even know what he’s saying, but he’s just in a rage. Lashing out, blood dripping from his wide open mouth and down his fangs as he screams...his eyes completely red, with no white at all, and full of this...pure hatred...and worse...”

Cecelia’s eyes gloss over as her figure seemed to shrink. 

“...Streaming with tears...like he’s some creature that’s gone so mad with pain and hunger...it’s capable of anything...”

Her eyes began to pulse with dread at the memory. Her voice had gone very quiet. 

“And all of that mad, blind, directionless, violent wrath...is directed squarely at me. Even if I don’t know why, or what I could have possibly done to him...I feel this fear I’ve never known awake, every time I see him. Like I’m frozen in place and can’t even breathe.”

Atticus watched her out the side of his eye. He’d taken in everything she said, but when silence finally fell, all he could do was recur the piece of her story that had echoed in his head the loudest.

“...This man you see...has red eyes?” 

Cecelia glanced at Atticus. The Ravenclaw’s eyes were narrowed, but not out of anger -- if anything, it seemed like he was troubled. The blue rippled with a vulnerable sort of emotion. 

Cecelia tilted her head slightly to look at Atticus more closely, her eyes welling up with understanding and amazement. 

“...You’ve seen him too,” she said in a very hushed voice.

The red eyes, full of a kind of bittersweet joy and agony that Atticus couldn’t fathom and streaming with tears, rippled over his mind. The memory was enough to make him swallow a lump in his throat. 

“...Maybe...but...the man I’ve seen...he’s not frightening. He’s...”

Atticus could almost feel the man clutching his shoulders again.

“...Sad. Happy, in a strange way...but in so much pain. As if he’s known a Hell I can’t fathom, and yet...as if just connecting with another person, in the simplest of ways -- just reaching out and touching someone...is a joy he’s longed for his whole life...”

Atticus himself hadn’t realized just how wonderful it was to feel such a connection, until he’d become Robert’s friend...

Cecelia stared at Atticus, her eyes very small and almost confused.

“...You mean he never frightens you?” she asked softly.

Atticus shook his head. “When I’d describe him to my mother...she’d always say I had nothing to fear -- that the man in my dreams couldn’t hurt me. But she never needed to say that. Even if his eyes aren’t natural and I don’t think he truly is human...I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.”

He turned to look more directly at Cecelia. 

“If who we’re seeing is the same person...he wouldn’t hurt you, either.”

Atticus was confident in this thought. This man who called him “Grim” in his dreams, as Robert had just started to -- who clutched his shoulders, with tears streaming from his eyes and painful, heartbroken laughter falling from his lips...he couldn’t be any sort of monster. 

Cecelia looked almost awed, as she looked at Atticus. She was quiet for a very long moment. Then, at last, she got to her feet and faced Atticus with fresh determination in her eyes.

“Atticus...will you help me find a boggart?”

Atticus blinked. “Huh?”

Cecelia’s hands clenched at her side. “My whole life, I’ve been terrified of meeting that monstrous man someday. He’s been my worst fear for as long as I can remember. Even in Care of Magical Creatures, when we faced our boggarts...I couldn’t make him go away. I couldn’t come up with anything funny enough to beat him back, or even just happy enough to make him change form. I couldn’t do anything...”

She swallowed, her expression becoming fiercer still. 

“But...if this man we’ve seen is as you say he is...then I want to face him again. Barty always says that the scariest magical creatures aren’t monsters that need to be locked up or killed -- just animals that can’t properly express pain, that need patience and kindness. Maybe knowing that this man that’s always frightened me is the same way will make it that much easier for me to overcome my fear.”

Atticus’s brow softened. “I see...”

He considered this for a moment.

“...Well, Professor Lupin had a boggart earlier this year, for his third year class,” he said slowly. “I remember hearing some of the younger students mentioning it.”

Cecelia’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s right! Someone’s worst fear was Professor Snape, right?”

“And he ended up dressed in some awful robes and a hat that kid’s grandmother wore,” said Atticus with a nod. 

He was trying not to smile, but it was proving difficult -- Severus Snape had always gone a bit easier on Atticus than a lot of other Ravenclaws due to his family name, but that didn’t mean Atticus particularly approved of his teaching methods. 

Atticus got to his feet, his eyes also full of new resolve. 

“Maybe if I ask Professor Lupin, he’ll be willing to let us use it. For all we know, boggarts could very well end up on our OWLs, after all.”

The following day after Defense Against the Dark Arts, Atticus dawdled behind after class until everyone was gone so he could discuss the matter with the professor. Lupin, for his part, was very supportive of the idea, and fortunately he’d actually kept the very boggart he’d used in that class with the intention of using it in the third years’ upcoming final exam. So that evening, right after dinner, Atticus and Cecelia bid goodnight to Barty and Robert and went on up to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom together to meet the professor so as to borrow his boggart. They didn’t give the other two the full context of what they were doing -- Cecelia had told Atticus she didn’t feel comfortable having an audience, while facing her worst fear again. Besides Atticus thought to himself, there was really no need for Robert and Barty to actually see the man themselves: they could always describe him to them afterwards. At least that way Cecelia would feel more comfortable. 

When the two arrived, Lupin was ready to supervise, holding the boggart in a trunk he’d rolled out into the center of the room. 

“All right, Cecelia,” the professor said, his quiet voice very grave as he rested a hand on the lid, “are you ready?”

Cecelia swallowed. Her face was very white as she glanced at Atticus on the sidelines -- Atticus gave her an encouraging look. 

“Mm-hmm,” Cecelia said after a moment, nodding. 

“On the count of three,” said Lupin. “One -- two -- ”

Cecelia set her jaw, putting on the bravest face she could. 

“ -- three!”

Lupin opened the trunk. 

At first, nothing happened. 

Then, abruptly, a filthy, claw-like hand with long nails lashed out of the trunk, seizing at the edge of it. 

The creature attached to the hand used the grip to hoist itself up and out, little by little, until it towered over all three of the people in the room. His long, tangled auburn hair swished to the side as he turned toward Cecelia. His face was largely in shadow, even though the room was well-lit, but the light of the room bounced perfectly off his sharp, cat-like fangs, stained with blood, and were reflected in his inhuman, sclera-less red eyes. 

Atticus’s heart leapt into his throat. 

The eyes were exactly the same. The exact shape, with that exact sharp glint, as those of the man in his dreams. The one who had called him “Grim.”

Cecelia tried to take a step back as the man approached her and ended up stumbling. Her hand on her wand was shaking visibly. 

“Steady, Cecelia,” said Lupin bracingly. “It’s just taking on the shape of your fear -- remember the spell.”

“He won’t hurt you, Cecelia,” Atticus reminded her. “He won’t hurt you.”

Cecelia’s hand tightened on her wand in a vain attempt to try to make it stop shaking. 

“R-Riddikulus,” she squeaked. 

The spell materialized, hitting the shadowy, monstrous man right in the shoulder, but the boggart didn’t even break its stride. The man shrugged it off, climbing out of the trunk and making its way over toward her. 

“Think of a way to make it funny, Cecelia,” Lupin encouraged her. 

“Riddikulus!” Cecelia tried again. 

This time the boggart flinched at the spell hitting it, but Cecelia must have been having trouble conjuring up a funny image in her head, as the cherry pie she’d materialized in her head dissolved before it could fully form. 

“Remember what Gilbert said!” Atticus urged her. “It’s not a monster that needs destroying -- it’s a creature that needs understanding -- ”

“RIDDIKULUS!” screamed Cecelia, her voice very shaky. 

CRACK.

Finally the spell made the boggart change shape -- but instead of changing it into something funny, it merely made the boggart’s face become a little clearer. His nose was crooked, and his jawline was strong -- even the pale, almost boyish complexion was easier to see --

And with a flare of terror, Atticus realized he had seen the man’s face before in his dreams too.

It was the man who had reminded him of Barty Gilbert.

He was older than Barty -- in his twenties, easily -- and yet somehow so much older than he looked. His eyes were hollowed-out, with terrible dark bags around them that made him look ill. The way he held himself was aloof, strong -- cold -- not at all like unassuming, modest, pleasantly smiling Barty. And his eyes...there was truly no light to be seen -- no white in the eye, no humanity at all...

Cecelia’s face had lost all of its color and her eyes had gone very wide.

“No...” she rasped weakly. “No, no...”

“The spell, Cecelia,” Lupin repeated, though his voice betrayed some concern now. “Remember, it’s not real -- ”

But Cecelia had lost her head completely. The monstrous man closed the space between them, opened his mouth, and began to scream wordlessly at her.  Tiny flecks of blood came off his fangs and slapped her face as tears streamed in rivers down his face -- and Cecelia crumpled up in a ball, her wand in her shaking hand forgotten and unable to move. 

Both Lupin and Atticus raised their wands, but someone else reacted faster.

“FLIPENDO!”

In a second, the monstrous man that resembled Barty had been blasted back away from Cecelia. 

It was the real Barty. Just behind him was Robert, both of them with their wands out -- while Robert ran over to Cecelia, Barty turned his focus squarely on the boggart. His blue eyes were narrowed with a kind of protectiveness and righteous fury Atticus had never seen. 

The boggart stumbled to its feet, facing Barty head-on. Upon making eye contact with him, the man reached out a hand toward him -- 

CRACK. 

In the monstrous man’s place was Robert. He looked older, with a ponytail of long curls and wearing a bright red coat and high-collared shirt -- and in a second, and with a loud BANG, his chest was stained with blood and his arm was blasted clean off -- 

Barty’s response was so effortless that it didn’t even need volume. If anything, the humorless, venom-laced restraint in his incantation with which he spoke was almost disquieting. 

“Riddikulus.”

CRACK. 

The boggart became Robert, dressed in Atticus’s clothes and tugging against his way-too-tight collar with a roll of his eyes. 

Atticus shot into action himself. Pointing his own wand at the boggart, he shouted, “Depulso!”

The boggart resembling Robert was knocked backward. With another wandless spell, Lupin yanked the creature back into the trunk and slammed it shut. 

Atticus ran over to Cecelia. She’d collapsed onto the floor -- Robert had both of his arms around her and she was shaking from head to toe with sobs. 

“Cecelia,” whispered Atticus. 

Cecelia gave a loud choke and clutched at the front of Robert’s new black school robes. Robert tried to soothe her by running a hand along her back, but his face was very white too. 

Lupin bent down in front of Cecelia and placed an open chocolate bar in her hands.

“Here now, Cecelia -- eat this,” he told her firmly. “It will help.”

The poor Hufflepuff was having trouble choking back her sobs enough to eat it, but she tried to gulp some down all the same. 

Robert looked up at Atticus, his rippling black eyes searching his face. 

“Grim,” he murmured, “was...was that thing...?”

“Yes.”

Atticus swallowed back the lump in his throat. 

“It was...in our dreams,” he said very lowly. “Both of ours.”

Robert’s eyes widened.

“We were going to tell you, we just thought -- well, Cecelia wanted to face her boggart on her own,” Atticus said weakly. “I only stayed for moral support...”

Robert whirled on Cecelia, his face whiter than ever. 

“That man -- Ceci, you never said he looked -- that he looked like -- ”

“I didn’t know!” choked Ceci. “I’ve never seen him that clearly before...”

Robert’s focus shot to Barty. The Gryffindor looked the whitest out of everyone as he stared down at his three friends, clumped in a heap on the floor with their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. His expression was also deeply wounded. His blue eyes were full to bursting with emotion -- fear, horror, pain, and utter despair. 

Cecelia’s worst fear is him, Atticus realized Barty must be thinking. This girl who means the world to him...is afraid of someone who looks like him. 

“Barty,” Robert started, his voice unusually sharp, “it’s just a -- ”

But Barty turned on his heel and ran for the door. 

“BARTY!” bellowed Robert. “BARTY!”

He’d stumbled to his feet and charged after him, but he halted in the doorframe -- Barty, with his much longer legs, had outpaced him and disappeared.