Rowling Terrace made Atlas’s skin crawl. It was just so…domestic. Clean well lit, populated with young families, start ups and teaming with Ministry employees. This, he had discovered when he had broken into the Department of Housings files last night, did have its advantages. The Ministry assisted people in getting housing, but only in very select neighborhoods, it greatly decreased the amount of time he had to spend hunting for Fletchers addressee. He glanced side long to the left and noticed two young wizard children play dueling in the backyard, the only results their training wands gave to each uttered spell was a smattering of multi colored bubbles. They ceased long enough to give him the briefest of glances and, not wanting to draw any undue attention to himself, he moved on.

He found the correct house at the end of a particularly winding street and stood in the wind regarding the building carefully. 246 Rowling Terrace, he blinked at the sign. This was it? Really? Red brick, black metal fence in the front, and remarkably few magical security precautions; At least ones that could be easily perceived. There were explanations for this sort of thing, and had Atlas been more himself he would take a longer time to prepare. But every night that box stayed in SHOP his magic, tricky ever since the incident anyway, was being taxed. He needed it gone and to get it gone he needed answers.

One of the things that years of illegal snoopy had told him was that if you walked around like you owned the place people tended to believe the lie. So he squared his shoulders, stood up straight and turned the knob to enter the buildings foyers. 246, upstairs, he climbed the stairs directly in front of him and a few minutes of aimless walking later he found himself standing in front of the actual door.

For this he actually removed his wand from his pocket and prodded, looking for anything that might work as an alarm, locks. He found several spells, complicated but only if you knew nothing about unraveling them. A few whispered spells and incantations and some simple good old fashioned lock picking and the door swung open. Atlas dug into his pocket as he stepped in and closed the door behind him. It looked like a Muggle highlighter and had been at one time or another. Now it had the helpful addition of being able to sense heartbeats and change colors accordingly. When the liquid remained Neon pink Atlas pocketed it and began perusing the apartment.

He plucked a few books from the shelf, filed through them, discarded them. He found a desk and a moment later found it locked. He was debating about whether to search the bathroom or the bedroom next when the sound of footsteps on the hall’s carpet outside drew his attention. Wand in hand and several protective devices on his person Atlas turned back to face the apartments main door.

Logan was reminded of his dislike for the press every time he went out into the wizarding world. Ever since Carmen Snidgeton had printed his picture alongside Garrow's in her horribly inaccurate article, he could not step foot outside his home without having the memory of his shame thrown into his consciousness. As he passed, he was very often spat upon or cursed. Some of these curses were merely verbal, but often Logan had found himself suddenly on fire, or spouting boils, and had to draw his wand to make quick work of undoing the hexes. Of course, occasionally his tormentor would be very excitable and think that Logan was pulling out his wand to return the jinx with a curse--perhaps even, they thought, the dreaded Dementor's Kiss Curse--and Logan would then try, ever in vain, to calm them down. More than once Aurors had been summoned by onlookers, and on these occasions it became clear that they were quite as tired of people's reactions as he was.

Not all of his reminders were negative, though; at least, not in the minds of their originators. He sometimes was congratulated, or patted on the back. More than once, patrons of the Leaky Cauldron had offered to buy him a drink, and several older women had approached him to thank him for his services to Wizarding England. These people were, if possible, even more insufferable for the ex-Unspeakable. Did they not realize what he had done? What he had facilitated? Yes, it had all been Garrow's idea. Yes, they had been Ferox's theories (though no one knew that). Yes, he had done the right thing in the end. But it was his deeds in the middle that haunted him, and that these decent people seemed determined to forget. Logan didn't want to forget them. He needed those memories to keep him on his current path of repentance.

Today, though, he had been well enough let alone. He had gone to Diagon Alley to make his bi-weekly grocery and supplies run, and had only been accosted once. It had been a new encounter, though--a young boy had brandished Snidgeton's article before him and demanded an autograph. Logan had rather bewilderedly obliged him, and the boy had disappeared as suddenly as he'd come. Confused and unsure of where this sort of reminder ranked in his regard, Logan had made his way to the Leaky Cauldron.

He didn't intend to stay long (he had eyeballs that needed refrigerating), but he had hoped to find Kate at work. He had made it a habit to drop by whenever possible, just to see if she was back yet. He never asked for her; he would just go in and sit for awhile, long enough for him to see her if indeed she was there. He had yet to see her, and each visit that passed with the same outcome worried him. The box that contained her soul had not been in his office when he went back for his things, which meant that someone had taken it. He could only hope that someone had been the proper authorities--but then, why hadn't her soul been released? Even if they couldn't think how to open it, the spells on the box should have been so weakened by now that they would have broken on their own, especially with so bright a soul as Kate's. Soon, Logan felt he would have to go to the Ministry and ask about it. He missed cheerful Kate Derum, and felt that she would be forgiving and friendly towards him. He longed for such friendliness.

He was moving to his usual table in the back corner, which provided the best view of the entire pub floor, when his pocket began to feel hot. Surprised, he reached in and withdrew a small token engraved with the number 246. It was glowing red about the edges. Logan himself had cast the spell, but he looked down at it in mild shock because it had never actually gone off before. It was his alarm. Since he was so rarely at home, and kept little of value, Logan had never been too concerned about guarding his flat. He'd made use of a few basic security charms and left it at that. This was just an extra precautionary measure; if the door was opened while he wasn't at home, the little token grew hot and glowed. Logan blinked at the token in his palm, which was now becoming painful; indeed, so painful that he recovered his senses with a gasp, tapped it with his wand, and Apparated back to his flat.

He arrived at the end of the hallway, hoping that the pop would be less noticeable that way, and made for the door. The door was closed and most of the security charms had reset; Logan quickly and quietly undid them and stepped inside. He gently shut the door once more and set his bag of goods down just inside. Wand out, he took a few steps forward, glancing into the living room and kitchen as he passed them. He stopped, looking further down the hall: the door to his study was open. He took a deep breath and prepared himself to go in when the intruder saved him the effort and stepped out.

"You!" Logan said in surprise, recognizing the face merely because of the strange expression. He'd seen it only once before--in the Department of Mysteries, on that disastrous night. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Breathing in and out Atlas watched the door, could hear muffled spells being uttered. The locks auto reset? Interesting trick really. He saw Fletcher before the other man saw him and he looked rather, deflated. Wondering if he should clear his throat or take some sort of action to draw attention to himself the decision was taken out of his hands altogether when Fletcher looked toward the study, his expression changing from worry to something different altogether.

You!. Atlas took a very short moment to glance to his left and then his right, confirming that Fletcher was indeed talking to him. A small part of his brain began working through the reasons why Fletcher might be entering his own home with his wand drawn in defense. Some sort of unseen security device must have alerted him, that or the man was just paranoid. There was the small nagging voice that whispered maybe he had known Atlas was coming but it was small and illogical, easily ignored. Maybe he was being threatened. Atlas had read the Prophet article, how could he not have? He had also read all of the subsequent letters to the editor, many calling for Fletchers head and other parts of the man’s anatomy. One particularly inventive writing had suggested taking care of Fletcher ‘the old Roman way’, from what Atlas could tell that would involve a sack, a wolf, a monkey, a snake, and a pool of electric eels. He wondered if Logan had read that one and might have asked had the man not been continuing.

He had just broken into his house the least he could do was give the impression that he was listening. Who are you? What are you doing here? Oh, now how to answer that. Finding out who he was wouldn’t be hard for the man, any access to the Department of Law Enforcement would give him anything and everything he wanted to know. His criminal record was small, and not nearly as colorful as some of his fellows but it was there nonetheless complete with photo and residence. “Atlas Caedmon.” He answered finally hazarding a glance at Fletchers wand as he did so. “I haven’t been feeling so hot lately, I figured you would be the person to see about that. I’d like to talk to you about your little pet project.”

He adjusted his hand lifting his wand so that it was more squarely aimed at Fletchers mid section. “If you have a minute that is?”

The man took a moment to answer with his name, and his eyes took on that far-away look that Logan had been frequently accused of in the past. The intruder was thinking, and it wasn't hard to guess about what. Should he give a name, and if he so chose, should it be his real name or a false one? Logan wondered if the name would be one he recognized, and if the stranger was aware that he would recognize it. That was the likely reason for his ponderous hesitation. In any case he would have to give some answer to the question of who he was, and Logan hoped he would be quick about it. He had milk to put away and his temporary refrigeration spell was rather short-lived.

“Atlas Caedmon.”

The name sounded ridiculous enough to be false, but it also sounded familiar. Where had he heard it before? He must have heard it at work, since he didn't go anywhere else. Yes--it had been ages ago, when he still communicated with the other Unspeakables (before most of them were dispatched by Garrow). Atlas Caedmon ran a shop in Diagon Alley; many of the Unspeakables frequented the shop, which contained a wide and strange array of objects. Most, according to their descriptions, were trivial, but occasionally the man came by something of immense value.

In the past, Logan would have played his game; it was a game of information, after all. Who knew more? Who could guess the rest? Who could do it all without letting the other person get any more information than was necessary and unavoidable? But Logan was tired of games and power play. So instead, he shrugged and nodded.

"Atlas Caedmon. I've heard of you. My ex-coworkers spoke of your shop," Logan said.

“I haven’t been feeling so hot lately, I figured you would be the person to see about that. I’d like to talk to you about your little pet project.”

Pet project? If they had been playing the information game, Atlas would currently have a sound advantage. Logan had no idea what he was talking about; he was no Healer, so why Atlas thought feeling ill was something he should speak to Logan about was beyond the ex-Unspeakable...unless. Pet project. Logan stared intently at Atlas. He had been in the Department of Mysteries that night, and if he wanted to speak to Logan about "not feeling so hot"...well, Logan could make a pretty good guess.

“If you have a minute that is?”

Logan laughed. "You're the one with a wand aimed at me," he said. "You tell me if I have a minute." Chuckling, he tucked his wand back into his pocket and picked up his bag of groceries. He walked into the kitchen, unconcerned with whether Atlas would hex him or follow him. It was a somewhat liberating feeling, he mused as he began to unload foodstuffs on his counter.

"It's draining, isn't it?" he called. "Keeping someone's soul captive."

Atlas Caedmon. I’ve heard of you. My ex-coworkers spoke of your shop..

There were some things that even the Ministry couldn’t in good conscious provide for their employees research and for these sorts of things they tended to come to Atlas. He had dealt with various unspeakables for a number of years but had more recently not seen any of them. At the time he had hazarded to guess that maybe the Ministry had become a tad less prudish and a tad more likely to go to make the effort to keep their Level 9s happy and out of his SHOP. At the time he had been grateful for the reprieve now he thought that he should have investigated that matter further. Not that it would have really changed anything.
Logan apparently didn’t recall him from school, not altogether unexpected. They had been in very different houses and though Atlas had been plenty flashy in his early years during the later years of Hogwarts where his and Logans academic pursuits began to coincide Atlas had been content to sit back, doing enough to get by in his advanced courses and shining in exams but little more. The flash and admiration had been left to people like Logan.

Fletcher was watching Atlas with an expression of intensity and a bare hint of nearly concealed confusion on his face and Atlas found himself really hoping that he wouldn’t have to clarify his statement. Logan was by all accolades and accounts a smart man, should be able to figure it out. Was a human soul so trivial a thing that the idea of letting one go missing wasn’t something that might cross a persons mind? Logan laughed and Atlas wondered if maybe poor Logan hadn’t gone the way of Sinistra’s grandfather or his own, that’s what work down there did snapped your wits.

You’re the one with a wand aimed at me. You tell me if I have a minute.” This followed by another brief sound and then Atlas suddenly realized the joke. Atlas traced his movements as the Ex-Unspeakable pocketed his wand and headed down the hall, toward where Atlas knew the kitchen to be. He waited until he was sure the man couldn’t see him and then allowed his own smile to come through momentarily.

[b] It’s draining, isn’t it? Keeping someone’s soul captive.. Atlas stalked in after him, glancing around for anything obviously meant to do him harm before strolling into the kitchen proper. He hoped up onto one of the barstools opposite Fletcher placing a look of menace on his face aimed, “Crucio.” There was an unhealthy splat noise and a brief spark of green light but nothing else. Atlas looked from the wand tip to Fletcher face.

“I’d love to do it you know. Nothing I would like better. To answer your question its bloody exhausting. Really I couldn’t even Accio that kettle over there to defend myself if a reincarnated Lord Voldermort came flying in through your window.” Setting the wand down on the counter top he observed Logan’s groceries, “ Now why would you say ‘holding captive’ don’t know how it belongs to and I can’t very well let it go wandering on its own. Seems to me you were the one who had it in a box locked in Level 9. That sounds like holding captive.”

“Crucio.”

Logan waited. Nothing happened, and he looked up in surprise. Well, he wasn't surprised at all that Atlas had tried it. He was sure the only thing stopping some of the people on the streets from using it was the thought of Azkaban, which was apparently still terrifying despite the lack of dementors. Personally, Logan thought the only way in which the prison was appalling was in the matter of cleanliness, but then, he was meticulous in making sure his surroundings were clean. He always had been, which had been a shock for some people in the past, considering that he had been used to letting his personal hygiene slide a bit when working long hours.

He almost found himself wishing the spell had succeeded, as a matter of curiosity. The Unforgivable Curses were a matter of interest for him, and had been before he ever joined the Ministry. In his sixth year he'd actually performed the Cruciatus Curse on himself as a small mind-over-matter experiment: could a person actually use such a spell on themselves, or would the pain overcome their will to perform it? He discovered that it was indeed possible to perform the spell on oneself, but the second part of the question was harder to answer since he couldn't actually perform a scientific survey. He had been able to keep it up for a full minute. He wondered if the indifferent attitude he now had would make a difference in how the spell affected him.

“I’d love to do it you know. Nothing I would like better. To answer your question its bloody exhausting. Really I couldn’t even Accio that kettle over there to defend myself if a reincarnated Lord Voldermort came flying in through your window.”

"My. That's very interesting," Logan said, pausing over his carton of eggs. "Are you healthy? What caliber of wizard are you, would you say? I mean, do you generally perform taxing spells with ease, or do you tire quickly?" Logan found it somewhat surprising that Atlas was having such trouble. It was true that he himself hadn't been able to bring himself to do magic for a good week after they captured Kate's soul, though he'd thought that was more emotional than physical weariness. What were the variables? Health, magical stamina, mental constitution--ah, yes. The spells on the container had been much stronger while the box was in Logan's keeping. They must have been very weak now, and a soul like Kate's couldn't help absorbing the atmospheric energy.

"Nevermind. I know what the problem is, " the ex-Unspeakable said. "Souls, being pure energy themselves, tend to attract the energy in their surroundings, and living creatures--especially magical ones--are excellent sources. The spells I'd placed on the container to guard against that sort of thing have likely weakened a great deal. I never had a chance to renew them." Why he was telling Atlas all of this he didn't know.

"Seems to me you were the one who had it in a box locked in Level 9. That sounds like holding captive.”

Logan paused, milk bottle in hand en route to the fridge.

"Better for it to have stayed with me than kept hidden by someone who doesn't understand the delicacy required. I didn't trust Garrow with it. He wasn't pleased when I told him he couldn't leave Level 9 with his prize. We were all captives, one way or another," he said quietly. He put the milk away and went to a corner cabinet, from which he pulled two glasses and a bottle of liquor.

"The soul belongs to a young girl named Kate Derum," he said, setting the glasses down on the counter, pouring as he spoke. "She used to be a waitress at the Leaky Cauldron. She probably has a long-term room at St. Mungo's, if you want to deliver her soul personally. That's your choice, though; her soul would be fine if it was just escaped. That was one of my sabotages to the spell. I left an anchoring piece with the body. Once the soul is released, it follows the thread home."

He held one of the glasses out to Atlas.

"Bourbon?" he asked.

Logan didn't cower, he didn't even flinch actually and wasn't that something. Instead there was a moment of complete indifference and then the Unspeakables eyes widened and suddenly Atlas was the main focus of his attention rather than his dairy and produce. My. That's very interesting, And then he began to rattle off questions, his tone excited but his expression remained on the border of sullen and bored. Are you healthy? What Caliber of wizard are you, would you say? I mean, do you generally perform taxing spells with ease, or do you tire quickly?.

This didn't really bode well. Atlas had been hoping for a quick and easy explanation, proximity to the spell from the Ministry leeching energy. He had perhaps thought that Logan would inform him that he too had had this experience but that didn't seem to be where this conversation was going at all. Logan has scarcely finished his line of questioning when he spoke again, Nevermind. I know what the problem is. Some progress then, Atlas folded his hands on the counter and lifted an eyebrow in questioning. Souls, being pure energy themselves, tend to attract the energy in their surroundings, and living creatures--especially magical ones--are excellent sources. The spells I'd placed on the container to guard against that sort of thing have likely weakened a great deal. I never had a chance to renew them..

Atlas snorted at the man. “Those runes? Those were energy bindings? You never thought to make them self renewing?” He questioned peevishly. Logan continued in his task, still speaking, definitely more chatty than Atlas had thought he would be but in the grand scheme of things it was nothing to complain about really. When Logan said the Junior Undersecretary's name Atlas's hand spasmed around his wand, the wood leaving a small groove in the palm of his hand. Logan seemed to have finished his task and as he moved across the kitchen Atlas again tensed, ready for the man to try something. When Logan opened the cabinet the only thing he pulled down were two glasses and a bottle of something or other.

The soul belongs to a young girl named Kate Derum, Before he even continued Atlas knew who he was talking about. She was one of the patient on the registry he had taken from St Mungos one of the mysterious victims. That was one of my sabotages to the spell. I left an anchoring piece with the body. Once the soul is released, it follows the thread home.

“You installed fail safes?” Things were beginning to slowly fall into place. That was the reason some of the elements of the recreation weren't coming together properly, hidden variables things that Fletcher had no doubt designed himself and kept from Garrow. He eyed the bottle Logan was offering, the man had done him no harm thus far. Atlas wasn't much for drinking, Jasper's liquor was about the only stuff he would trust. Decorum was important though, he nodded an affirmative yes in the bottles direction. “Kate Derum, shes one of the patients in the special projects ward at St Mungos. You took out that girls soul and put it in a box,” His voice was low, tone as neutral as he could manage. Logan was a scientist Atlas susepcted he wouldn't get very far by being overly emotional. “Why? Shes a bar maid, not a particularly talented witch, sweet, kind, beautiful yes, but ordinary. Your choice of victim makes no sense.”

He swallowed past a newly formed lump in his throat before he asked his next question. “You said that you had fail safes, a anchor...” He pressed his lips together before looking back at Fletcher. “So what happened to Holywell?”

“Those runes? Those were energy bindings? You never thought to make them self renewing?”

Logan regarded the other man with an impatient look; despite his newfound appreciation for life and other people, he couldn't help but weary of their appallingly small spheres of knowledge. Yes, he knew he couldn't expect them to know the intricacies of spell-weaving the way he did. It was a specialty not available to the common wizard, and though Atlas appeared not the least bit common he couldn't possibly have committed the same hours of study to the art as Logan had. Even if he had, Logan felt that he might not have been able to grasp the concepts in full. He seemed the type to focus on the one insignificant detail amidst the hundreds of monumental ones.

"I had thought of it, my dear man. Unfortunately, the rushed and somewhat stressful circumstances at the time prevented my doing so. Mr. Garrow likes to keep to a strict schedule, and those who do not meet deadlines often meet instead with a more macabre understanding of the word, if you catch my meaning," Logan said with a grim smile, sipping his drink.

“You installed fail safes?”

"Yes," Logan said after a pause. "I wanted the spell to remain imperfect as long as possible. It wasn't much, but I was trying to buy time; time to figure out my next move before Garrow demanded everything he thought he'd been promised, and not by me." He took another drink, smacking his lips. A lot of good it did.

“Why? She's a bar maid, not a particularly talented witch, sweet, kind, beautiful yes, but ordinary. Your choice of victim makes no sense.”

Logan sighed and rubbed his forehead, turning away from Atlas. Kate's smiling face swam into his mind's eye as he recalled his first meeting with her. He'd never regretted knocking someone over so much before. If he hadn't met her that day, if she hadn't smiled at him and hugged him, he never would have felt so wretched about Garrow's required "test." But he didn't blame her. No, the blame of all of this lay on him and no one else. He alone had the power to say no all along.

"She wasn't my choice," Logan said quietly, his voice thick with suppressed emotion. "She wasn't a choice at all. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and someone whom Garrow perceived would not be missed." He paused, the memory of that night and his terrible helplessness returning to him. "I tried to stop him. But I was a coward. I made several half-hearted attempts to back out, to sever connection, but none were successful. I was trapped, unwittingly, by the very--the very love that opened my eyes to how wrong the endeavor was." He sighed. "And in the end, it is my cowardice that is the true cause of this evil."

“You said that you had fail safes, a anchor...so what happened to Holywell?”

Logan took a particularly long draught from his glass. What had happened to Holywell? It was something that Logan had spent quite a lot of time pondering. At first he'd just imagined that his design had failed, but as the depression had begun to lift he'd realized that that was foolish. His designs were perfect, and particularly this one; he had toiled over it for days, ensuring that the anchor at least would be irremovable. But Holywell's soul, far from being sucked back into his body, or sucked into the container, had simply faded and been lost. Why?

"I do not yet have a definite answer to that question, and I don't believe I ever will; finding one would require intense study of the spell under several different circumstances, and I have no desire to engage in such studies again," Logan said. "But the most likely conclusion I have discovered is this: Holywell's soul was weak, and Garrow's malice strong. The Unforgivable Curses increase in potency with the power and ill will of the caster; that we can agree upon? So it is with this curse. And because Holywell's soul had so little energy of its own, it could not withstand such powerful wickedness, and the connecting thread between soul and anchor was broken. I imagine that if we were to seek it in Holywell's body, we would still discover the anchor...but the greater part of his being has been reclaimed by other dimensions."

He drained his glass and set it firmly down.

"Have you any further questions?" he asked.

Atlas held the glass at eye level, examining the inlays of the crystal and the way the liquid sloshed around inside it as Logan gave his explanation. The man was being remarkably forthcoming with information and Atlas was still wondering if this was some sort of trap. Ease in a situation like this had invariably led to something terrible happening soon after. Then again the universe was turned on its ear, why shouldn't the current situation follow suit?

Atlas waited until he had seen Fletcher take a few plentiful samplings from his own glass before he gave the glass in his hand a curious sniff. There was a pause and Atlas regarded Fletcher over the rim of the glass for a moment before lifting it to take a tentative sip, breaking the eye contact. It was good stuff, and didn't seem to contain anything harmful save the alcohol itself, he tipped the glass again savoring the taste this time before swallowing.

Mr. Garrow likes to keep to a strict schedule, and those who do not meet deadlines often meet instead with a more macabre understanding of the word, if you catch my meaning.. The smile Atlas looked up to find was unnerving, the same sort of smile that you would sometimes see on Zippy Sinistra's face when the man thought nobody was paying attention, or the kind he had sometimes seen on his own grandfather, it was a condition that Unspeakables seemed to cultivate in their time in the bowels of the Ministry. They should teach it to Aurors, confessions would be got much more readily. Everything he thought he'd been promised? And if not by you than whom? He sat a bit more upright on his stool. Had there been more than just the two Unspeakables assisting Garrow with this work?

His mouth was open to ask but Logan's sigh and the way he moved away from the counter suddenly shut it again. She wasn't my choice. Atlas leaned forward to hear the Unspeakables voice, perplexed to hear real emotion in it for the first time in the entirety of the conversation. She wasn't my choice at all. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and someone whom Garrow perceived would not be missed. Atlas bristtled but stayed silent, Logan obviously wasn't finished. A drawn out pause and he continued. I tried to stop him. But I was a coward. Of course you are, A cruel nattering little voice chided in Atlas mind. Who could be led to think otherwise?. I made several half hearted attempts to back out, to sever the connection, but none were successful.

An eyebrow lifted as Atlas juggled the tumbler glass between his fingers. This meant that these attempts had either been half hearted enough that Garrow hadn't taken notice or the Unspeakable had been valuable enough to the project for Garrow to allow the insubordination to slide. I was trapped, unwittingly, by the very--the very love that opened my eyes to how wrong the endeavor was. And in the end, it is my cowardice that is the true cause of this evil..

And what has been done to punish you for it? The cloying anger and loathing must have been evident on Atlas's face, he was to tired to properly hide his emotions as he usually did. The man was the classic genius, told from far to young an age for far to long how gifted he was, how smart and his was what it wrought. Someone who hadn't even seen there was a problem with what he was doing until it was to late to go back. Then he had allowed his cowardice to drive him on with it...who knows how many other test subjects had suffered for Logan to keep his worthless sniveling life. And Holywell?

I do not yet have a definatite answer to that question......But the most likely conclusion I have discovered is this: Holywell's soul was weak, and Garrow's malice strong. The Unforgivable Curses increase in potency with the power and ill will of the caster; that we can agree upon? So it is with this curse. And because Holywell's soul had so little energy of its own, it could not withstand such powerful wickedness, and the connecting thread between soul and anchor was broken. I imagine that if we were to seek it in Holywell's body, we would still discover the anchor...but the greater part of his being has been reclaimed by other dimensions.

Then Logan drained his glass, Atlas watched the movement of the man's throat as he swallowed. The way his voice went flat and scientific even as he discussed the murder of another human being, a human being Atlas had been responsible for. The hand holding the glass was trembling slightly and Atlas increased the pressure of his hand on the glass hoping to make the movement less visible. Have you any further questions? The words were spoken with all the interest and feeling of a lecturer looking to go home early for the weekend not a man who seemed duly sorry for his actions.

The tremor from his hand had moved up his arms and now Atlas could feel it in his shoulders, radiating between the blades and knotting his muscles. He closed his eyes, ignoring the images that played across them and took a long gulp from his glass. He didn't open them again until the glass was empty. There were questions, most of them involving how Logan could possibly live with himself and then going down in coherency and decency from there but Logan wouldn't understand any of those questions. Atlas would receive no comforting answer to those and so he wouldn't ask. Fletcher was a scientist, a brain, and when you were speaking to one of those people you had to ask the right questions.

“Can I have more of whatever that was.” He said finally angry with the crack in his voice. It was gone when he continued. “How did you do it? A modified imperious?” He shifted on the stool and produce a series of parchments, “I've been trying to recreate the spell backwards, incantation down, results have been promising but I don't work fast enough.” He spread the papers on the counter. “You used a Faucall spectrum charm didn't you? To decrease the power drain on the user?” Stabbing at the paper with his index finger over a set of math equations Altas glanced up at the man. “These equations, their muggle in origin, but needed to conduct some of the finer arithmancy formulas, this is all conjecture mind you...” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Who else was working with you Fletcher? Unless you took some high level Muggle mathematics, which I have my doubts about you lowering yourself to, you had another assistant.”

Logan watched Atlas carefully as he spoke. The man seemed extremely suspicious, and the more Logan told the more Atlas seemed to frown. What had he expected? It was futile for Logan to try and maintain secrecy, or deny everything at this point. There was nothing to be gained by it. If Logan was going to be honest with himself, it was almost comforting to be telling all of this to someone who understood it, to a degree. Who else could he explain it to? Who else was interested? The rest of the wizarding world wanted to get on with their lives. They cared little for the misguided motivations of a magical genius.

He looked away when he spoke of Kate, but when he moved on to the topic of his cowardice he looked back at the other man and was surprised to see a barely concealed fury there. It certainly wasn’t the first time someone had looked on him in anger since the whole debacle, but coming from this man, this man who was somehow simultaneously insipid and brilliant, it seemed out of place. Logan wondered what his offense against Atlas was. Was he resentful because Logan was smarter? No; that was foolish. This man was concerned with other matters. Was it because Logan had gone unpunished? Legally, yes. Garrow had been the bigger fish to fry, as it were. But Logan was a masochist, and punished himself with long hours brooding over his misdeeds and the loss of things dear to him. Carmen Snidgeton had punished him. Artemis had punished him. And now, Atlas Caedmon was there to punish him.

“Do you hate me, Mr. Caedmon?” Logan asked, almost laughing. “Am I the grossest of slimes to you?" He chuckled grimly and shook his head. There was no difference between the way Atlas thought of him and the way he thought of himself. This man certainly was punishing him with the outward personification of his own laments, whether it had been his intention or not, whether he persisted in believing Logan unpunished. "Well, I won't argue the point," Logan said.

“Can I have more of whatever that was.”

Logan laughed and nodded, tipping the decanter over the other man's glass and filling it halfway. He topped off his own glass while Atlas began to question him about the details of the spell. The man had gotten surprisingly far on his own, and Logan regarded him with increasing interest as he sipped from his glass. Simultaneously insipid and brilliant. Brilliance could be feigned to a degree, but the ability to dissect a spell knowing only the incantation and final results could not. Perhaps, Mr. Caedmon...you are not so oblivious as you first appear. Very interesting.

“Who else was working with you Fletcher? Unless you took some high level Muggle mathematics, which I have my doubts about you lowering yourself to, you had another assistant.”

Logan paused in lifting his glass to his lips again, and slowly lowered it. Clever. Very clever indeed. But what could he say? He had no proof against Ferox. The man had been infuriatingly discrete. What was more, Logan had no idea where he was now. Their rare and brief meetings had been arranged by Garrow, and Logan had never known how the man had contacted him. He frowned in frustration. What to do? If he told Caedmon, would the other man believe him? Did he know anything of Ferox? He hardly cared about keeping Ferox anonymous, but as a scientist he couldn't make definitive conclusions, definitive claims without evidence and data. He took a long drink.

"Very good, Mr. Caedmon. You are wonderfully perceptive," he said finally. "I did not originate the theories on which this spell was based, I merely translated them from mathematics to magic." Another drink. "Unfortunately, matters have prevented me from previously exposing the mastermind, of whom I myself know very little." He laughed, short and dark. "It's all very underhanded, you see. Very underhanded indeed!" He drained his glass and wondered if it would be gluttonous to pour another.

"But you move in strange circles, from what I hear. You might know him," Logan said quietly after a long pause. "His name is Calixtus Ferox."

Do you hate me, Mr. Caedmon? Am I the grossest of slimes to you?.

The man was laughing, at least Atlas thought it was a laugh. A sort of low grizzly sound it made him feel uncomfortable. Atlas shifted where he sat and resisted the urge to glance behind him, the kitchen suddenly felt very cramped. Well, I won't argue the point,

“It doesn’t matter what I think of you Fletcher. I’m just another wizard who reads the paper, one among a thousand of the teeming masses in this city. Doubt it would matter at any rate, you probably got as far as you did because you didn’t care what anyone thought of your actions.” He scrutinized the man and realized that he felt vaguely sorry for him, for reasons beyond his current understanding. Vaguely but not completely, Atlas couldn’t believe he had escaped punishment, yes Garrow had been the mastermind, but that was like arresting a mob boss and then allowing all of his henchmen to go free.

It was the responsibility of the government to do what the people needed them to do, to punish the people who had warranted it. But here was Logan Fletcher, standing free, drinking his own booze, in his own home, Aurors, the system was wrong. Atlas accepted his refill and swirled the liquid in the glass wondering what exactly he was doing here. Information, yes that was most certainly a part of it, hardly all of it though. He had aimed at Fletcher in jest, hoping to frighten the man, garner an apology a plea, but what if it had worked? What would Atlas have been then? A vigilante, which sounded cliché but it was an apt title. He would have been dealing punishment where it wasn’t his to deliver. It was an unsettling realization.

Logan was looking over the notes, pausing over a passage or equation here and there to read more carefully. Atlas watched the path of the glass from the counter top to Logan’s lips and mimed the action himself. When he felt that Logan had seen enough of the work for him to take Atlas seriously, he shuffled the papers back into a neat pile and shifted to place them in his coat. Then he asked Logan about his accomplice and waited, the glass perched in the palm of his hand.

Very good, Mr. Caedmon. You are wonderfully perceptive. Well, yes he was. Atlas guessed it was as close to a compliment as one might ever receive from the ex unspeakable he smiled ruefully and waited for Logan to say more. I did not originate the theories on which this spell was based; I merely translated them from mathematics to magic.. Atlas set the glass down, placing both hands palms down on the counter and leaning forward unconsciously, never taking his eyes from Fletcher. All the while his mind worked through the narrow list of people who had the skills to create bases like he had theorized the spell would need. It was getting smaller. Narrow it down Logan, narrow it down.


Unfortunately, matters have prevented me from previously exposing the mastermind, of whom I myself know very little. Logan laughed, and Atlas felt an urge to shake the man. The sound was like inward pointed knives. Laughter was meant to be a sign of mirth but there was nothing about Fletcher that could make Atlas imagine the man had a part of his personality that could generate happiness. Surely he hadn’t always been like that. There must have been sometime when a laugh had been a laugh…the Ministry he decided, this is what they did to you. Atlas looked around the dark little kitchen, when had it gotten so dark? There were little children playing in the streets outside, but he couldn’t hear them, he couldn’t hear anything except his rapidly increasing heartbeat and Fletcher’s indifference.

It's all very underhanded, you see. Very underhanded indeed! This hadn’t been a good idea. The meeting had been informative but was rapidly leaving Atlas uncentered and uncertain. Fletcher knew who his accomplice had been but he seemed hesitant to give them up? Why? He couldn’t leave until he knew, but what could he do to get information Fletcher didn’t deign to give him? To many possibilities, all of them a compromise…. Just narrow it down Logan, narrow it down.

He was ready to end this, flee from this place…flee it was the only appropriate term, go back to SHOP where things were familiar and safe and think. If he thought long enough it would come, that was how it had always worked. It would work again. But you move in strange circles, from what I hear. You might know him,

Atlas stopped breathing, stopped moving, and stopped thinking.

His name is Calixtus Ferox..

Atlas starred, first at Fletcher and then down at the counter top. Pain bloomed in his chest after a moment he realized he still wasn’t breathing. He pushed away from the counter; nearly fell when his knees didn’t immediately hold his weight once his feet were on the floor. He gulped in air, the pain diminished, another breath and it was back but different. Calixtus Ferox, the assistant to the genius, the inventor, the chemist, the little pot. He tore the pages back out of his pockets, forgetting Logan was there, forgetting everything. He spread the documents on the counter top, dug again for a pen, dropped coins and a keychain with a dancing bear on it in his haste. He placed the pen to parchment, circling random things that were no longer at all random and suddenly he saw it. He saw the way Calixtus and his theories and his self were rooted into the spell.

Another breath hitched its way into his lungs; he pressed the pen to hard on the ‘unicorn blood’ tearing into the paper. “Narrowed it down.” He said lifting his head to look at Logan suddenly. “Have to go.” He turned, the pen and the notes clutched into one fist while the other stayed out in front of him, he didn’t want to bump into anything. “Something I need to do. You have been very helpful. Thank you. Come again.” He reached the hallway and then he realized what the pain was. He starred down at his wand dumbly, lifted it hesitantly and then…Just maybe. He flicked it, there was the sound of a whip cracking and then everything disappeared as he apparated from the Unspeakables home.