Leaving for London solo

Dialogue, Thoughts
IC date: September 1st, 2026
Location: Wingham, England
Time: 7:00-7:30 AM
Mentioning: @N/A

Devastated, determined, and despised.

Atlas was devastated to leave behind everything he'd ever known. "Devastated" would be an... overstatement. A tragically huge overstatement. "Indifferent" was more-fitting. However, a few things were still worth feeling somewhat devastated over. He didn't want to leave his friends; he'd built a decent social life here and must now start from scratch. That was no easy task, especially in a world that didn't favor his kind.

On a happier note, life at home with his witch-of-a-muggle mother was exhausting and unbearable. She bore an interesting duality- appearing virtuous and oh-so-wonderful to all except for her own son, whom she treated like a hazard that burdened her for a decade. Leaving for Hogwarts meant peace at last for the pair, until summer rolled around.

Determined Atlas was, desperate to fit in with this new society. His textbooks were his greatest and only weapon to conquer such a task. Numerous mornings, afternoons, and evenings spent reading and rereading them couldn't possibly go to waste; perhaps his knowledge would make up for his unfortunate muggle background. He'd soon established a keen interest in The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.

Despised could go two ways. He was despised by his mother, and it was reciprocated, but never shown on Atlas' end. The young boy despised many things, actually. The memory of a small, foolish girl who pointed and gawked at him in Diagon Alley as if he were a newly discovered species of exotic bird never failed to make his blood boil. Then, the girl's mother's face, full of disdain and clearly deeming Atlas a stain to the wizarding society, tormented him each night as he wondered if all wizards hated muggles and muggle-borns.

Kind witches and wizards certainly did exist; Atlas had met one while shopping in Flourish and Blotts. The question of how many gleefully lived rent-free in his head.

Today, he had risen from bed at around 6:30 AM, already having laid wide-awake for at least an hour. It was not surprising that Mrs. Woodrow had forced her son to pack everything alone the night before. There she was, seated by the unlit fireplace, her face a blend of dread, relief, and sadness. Her brown-green eyes were glued to the ceiling, wide and tense, yet somewhat content.

All that could be forgotten when the woman sensed her son was awake. She reverted back to the typical uptight Mrs. Woodrow whose favorite hobby was making her son feel unwelcomed in his own "home".

After a brief exchange, Atlas headed into the kitchen where a "meager" breakfast was waiting for him; meager only because he'd long gotten sick of cereal or overnight oats every morning. Of course, his mother never listened to his complaints. He hastily gulped down a glass of milk then a banana, which were the only remaining acceptable foods in his book.

As the boy sat on his favorite dining chair, his eyes shifted from the vase of fake white roses to his newly obtained trunk, wondering how on earth his school supplies fit into such a small space.

"We'll leave for the bus in fifteen minutes." said the stiff Mrs. Woodrow as she collected the unfinished cereal and empty glass.

An unusual surprise. Typically, the chore was left for Atlas to do himself. He suspected she was just in a hurry to get rid of him, erasing any sign that another resident had lived in the house.

"Mom, was my dad a wizard?" were the words that left Atlas' mouth long before he realized.
Mrs. Woodrow said nothing.
"Because if he were, that likely explains-"
"It doesn't matter." Three harsh, blunt words, intended to shut her son up.
Unfortunately, it's not easy to shut Atlas Woodrow up. "Why not? It would be cool if I somehow found him in the Wizarding World."

That pushed Mrs. Woodrow over the edge.

"You will never, and I mean never, find that bastard anywhere in all of Europe!" she snarled, fuming.
"Sure, that could be true, but wizards are found in other continents as well. I'm pretty sure there's a school in North America..." Atlas continued, trying to recall the bit of information mentioned in his textbooks. He was somewhat aware of his mother's swelling anger, but he'd be leaving in what, ten minutes? His punishment would have to wait till next summer. "Ilvermorny? I think that's the one."
"Your father- Absolutely horrendous of an excuse of a man! I," She took a sharp, infuriated breath in. "I can't believe- why- why on earth...!? They'll never accept you anyways!"
"Who's they?"
She was pacing now, ludicrously angry and on edge. "Those ridiculous..!" Mrs. Woodrow cut herself off, as if to avoid giving her son the satisfaction of an answered question. "You know, your father doesn't even see his own parents anymore because he's too worried about that stupid little job he's got!"
"But you said we don't get to see Grandma and Grandpa as much because you're too busy with work..."

Mrs. Woodrow had been absolutely livid for a while, but no words in Atlas' vocabulary could describe this new level of anger. Apoplectic with rage, the mad woman hurled an apple his way. It found its way to his jaw then landing conveniently in his hands. He was petrified.
"Foolish boy!" she shrieked before quickly glancing at the clock. "What are you staring at? You'll be late for the bus!"
Atlas was wondering how simply pointing out his mother's hypocrisy resulted in an aching jaw and a dented apple, but he zipped his lips and said nothing.

It was uncertain whether Mrs. Woodrow had calmed down on the walk to the bus stop, but her face remained as red as the apple in Atlas' left hand. His right was lugging the surprisingly light trunk.

It was early morning. Sunlight pierced through the crowded skies, leaving splashes of gold on rooftops and greenery. The sparsely populated streets were meant to fill Atlas with serenity, made impossible by a certain presence besides him.

Five minutes passed with every second waiting far too patiently for its turn. The troubled Atlas boarded the bus without waving goodbye to his already leaving mother. An unsightly bruise had appeared on the left side of his face, located on the jawline. It was pretty noticeable to anyone who looked twice, which was unfortunate. He remembered the clean knees, elbows, and most importantly, faces in Diagon Alley. Injuries were rare. There must be some kind of healing spell.

Perhaps his mother did find a way to punish him, by separating him from the rest of the Wizarding World.

Regardless, he felt it was the norm to wave goodbye one last time, but only the empty bus stop and backdrop of houses remained in view. Mrs. Woodrow was already turning the corner; a sight Atlas closely missed.

Word Count: 1143