Woven || S. Sallow

𝟎.𝟎

Scamander was a name depicting widespread fame, respect, and dignity. The family was known globally as a renowned Magizoological titan. Every member of the family was shown in wizardly newspapers and magazines for all to see. The birth of a new child was announced in the Daily Prophet. The Scamander name carried sway wherever it went.

This reputation was a far cry from the scene unfolding before Atlas.

Eighteen people running in and out of a marquee-style tent. The early evening rays of sunshine beat down on the white exterior, bathing the inside in a golden hue.

It was easy to mistake the marquee for a house. There was a collection of spacious armchairs and couches huddled in groups. A table long enough to fit eighteen bodies stretched through the centre. Bookshelves littered the walls alongside writing desks for letter writing or the younger generation's summer homework. A haphazard collection of kneazels, cats, owls, and one puppy tumbled around like portable tripping hazards.

Six members of the group were shouting and cheering as they zipped around beyond the tent walls. Another six were gathered around a long table, attempting to play one card game or another. The four eldest generation members were settled into armchairs, conversing about whatever fantastic tale they were reliving that week. One person was happily pottering away in the actual house's kitchen. The final person, Atlas, was curled up on a couch reading a letter from her friends.

"Will you stop cheating!" Linus shouted, snatching a card from his older sister's hand.

Danae, the older sister, scoffed as she snatched the card back. "It's not my fault you're terrible at this game."

"I would be better if you stopped breaking the rules." The black-haired wizard hissed, throwing his cards onto the table. "You win. I quit."

A groan rippled through the four other players. Calliope leaned forward, beginning to bundle the cards into one pile in her hands.

"Linus, it's just a game. Danae will play properly, won't you?"

Danae scowled at the oldest cousin, Eurydice. The older witch stared pointedly at her until she nodded.

"Do you think they forget they're all basically middle-aged?" Atlas peered up at her younger cousin, Rolf. His dark hair ruffled from the Quidditch match that the youngest generation and her two uncles had been playing.

The kneazel in Atlas's lap purred contentedly as she stroked it. "I'm enjoying the free entertainment."

The younger wizard shoved Atlas's legs off the couch. Rolf plopped into the seat so aggressively that the kneazel hissed and disappeared into the chaos. "Wanna bet how long it takes for Uncle Linus to call your mum a meaniepoo?"

"Oh no, he's far more likely to pull the 'I'm telling mom' line than call her names." Atlas exaggerated her uncle's American accent, making her cousin laugh.

"How's the famous Harry Potter?" Rolf motioned to the letter in her grasp.

Atlas shrugged, picking at a thread on her shorts. "His letters are very boring. His family isn't the greatest."

A new voice joined their conversation. "Why doesn't he come visit us?" While Rolf was her first cousin, their parents being twins, Thalia was her second cousin, their grandmothers being sisters. Similar to their Uncle Linus, Thalia and her parents had definite American accents. The blonde teenager perched herself on the arm of the couch. "I'd love to meet this guy. You never shut up about him and the rest of your friends."

"Hogwarts is just simply superior to Ilvermorny, dear cousin." Atlas's brother rested his chin on the crown of her head. "It is just a fact."

"Dunno, Thunderbird is a way cooler house than your Pufflepoof or whatever." The final member of the youngest generation plopped himself in between Atlas and Rolf.

"Gerroff," Atlas grumbled, swatting at her brother while trying to avoid her cousin. "Adonis, you're squishing me to death."

"And it's Hufflepuff. You're such an American, deliberately butchering our culture." Rolf huffed dramatically.

"There's too many people here." The British witch struggled to her feet. Adonis slid into her now vacant seat before Theron could claim his sister's space. "Also, I'm not even a Hufflepuff. And she's not a Thunderbird!"

Rolf glanced at his cousin. "What are you then?"

"Pukwudgie."

"How is that better than Hufflepuff?"

Atlas slipped through the tent flaps, breathing in the warm summer air. The grass tickled her bare feet as she stepped through the garden. The house they rented each summer cast a shadow over the greenery. Through the window, Atlas could make out her uncle Douglas singing to himself as he cooked.

The chaos brought a certain calm to Atlas's mind.

Adonis and Thalia had grown up in America, attending Ilvermorny and spending a plethora of time with their grandparents, Queenie and Jacob. Meanwhile, Rolf, Atlas, and Theron had been raised in Britain, attending Hogwarts and spending their free moments with their grandparents, Newt and Tina. The moments they spent with the other side of the family were precious, even if they were loud.

A throbbing pain in Atlas's head made her vision swim. It wasn't unusual for Atlas to have migraines. Her great aunt Queenie, who was lovingly referred to as Grauntie, had often recounted how she used to suffer from migraines before she honed her abilities as a legillimens.

Every time this conversation came up, Atlas sighed internally. She wasn't a legillimens. If she were, then she probably would have an easier time chasing aimlessly after Harry half the year. She just had headaches.

An aged tree offered her protection from the sun as she settled herself into the soft, dry moss. The heat of the summer day weighed on her eyelids like a sleep potion. Whatever Harry had written in his newest letter would have to wait as the clutches of sleep wrapped tightly around Atlas.

Just like every time she had fallen asleep over the last year, the same scene materialised.

It was a quiet cellar.

The rows of books encasing the walls acted like an insulator, forcing noise out of the room. A handful of lamps littered the messy desks. Books and pages were piled on every available surface.

Two people had their backs to the cellar door. The woman had dirty blonde hair, pulled back into a tight bun. Her skirt almost touched her ankles, and she wore a thick woollen cardigan. Unlike Atlas's real life, it wasn't summer here. The man was wearing slacks. Suspenders hooked over his shoulders on top of a crisp white shirt.

Atlas could've timed this dream to the second. She looked at the middle lamp expectantly. A heavy crack filled the air as the glass shattered. The woman jumped, leaning closer to the lamp to investigate. The four other lamps cracked simultaneously. The woman stumbled, banging her head off the table top. The man rushed over, his head dangerously close to the open flame.

But Atlas knew what was about to happen. The man huddled over the fallen figure of the woman, trying to assess her head. Then, his limbs began to move like they were encased in gelatin. His body slouched over before flopping to the ground.

The flames began to dim as if their source of oxygen was cut off. Atlas's head pounded. Her chest felt tight. She felt like she was drowning in air. 

The timid creak of the cellar door echoed in the dead air. The sharp intake of breath, followed by the rapidly ascending footsteps that taunted her dreams. "Anne? Anne, get someone!"

Then, just as the room went black, Atlas gasped.

Her eyes shot open. The sun was falling towards the horizon now. She wasn't sure how long she had been asleep, but she could hear the clinking of plates inside the marquee. A blurry figure poked its head out.

"Atlas? It's dinner time, Mooncalf."

"Coming, mum."