"What happened to your eye, Lucius?" mother asked after they met them at St. Oswald's.
"It just seems that Arthur would resolve an conflict with his fists than his wand," he answered with his trademark drawl.
Grandfather Cygnus was located in the eastern end of the establishment. When wizards and witches were housed here when they reached the age to no longer look after themselves, there was no particular reason for them to perform magic. Agatha must have thought she saw two of the faculty doing the tango and yarn devouring an door when she passed by.
She, Draco, and father were greeted by his caretaker – one Euphemia Rowle – and before stepping forward into the room, she heard Grandpa Cygnus call out, "Ah, Agnes, Draco! Come here! Let me see the both of you!"
He was sitting in one of the wicker rocking chairs when they had arrived. Sitting opposite of their mother. "It's Agatha, Grandfather," she softly corrected as they neared forward. He was doing that lately, getting their names confused. Something that had irritated father to no end.
"When you reach my age, dear, you'll forget who everyone is," he said with a smile.
As they had tea, it wasn't unnoticeable that he wasn't eating anything. Recalling what mother had said in the morning, he couldn't keep anything down and had an lack of appetite. Rather, he gave some of his sandwiches to her and Draco.
It was when he decided to take an rest that Agatha decided to read to him from her copy of The Tree of All Seasons and Other Whimsical Bedside Stories.
"…and at the sight of that tree among the ones barren of their leaves did he stop," she read as mother moved to get him up to be cleaned. "Abernathy paused, confusion running through him. How could it be that an tree abundant with apples be still producing it's fruit in the dead of winter? Who has heard such an thing, who has seen such an thing?"
"Father, time to wash up," said mother softly. "Father."
"Mr. Black, time to wash up," Mrs. Rowle said firmly, though something had told Agatha it would be fruitless.
"I don't think he's waking up," she said numbly, looking at her grandfather's now lifeless body.
The funeral of Cygnus Black III was an small affair. Only consisting of black clad family and friends. The nine of them standing somberly as the funeral happened under an foreboding, overcast sky.
In the obituary published an few days later, one of the words were "survived by his two daughters Narcissa Malfoy (nee Black) and Bellatrix Lestrange (nee Black), the latter currently entombed in Azkaban." Considering that this was father that wrote it, there was no mention of an Andromeda Tonks nee Black. Even if she had seen the obituary, Agatha had pondered to write to her estranged aunt.
Yet, why receive word on an father who cast you out for marrying an Muggle-born.
Before she and Draco knew it, September 1st arrived. Before shrinking her trunk, Agatha packed everything she needed (including the Marauder's Map that she had stolen from Uncle Snape's office desk the previous year), and because Lockhart's books took up space for most of one of her trunks, she had to pack an additional trunk.
As they boarded the train, she was oblivious to Dobby snapping his fingers as she witnessed the Weasley family hurrying onto the Platform right to the minute.
"This year is going to be rich," Ernessa mused as they went to find an compartment.
"Lockhart as our professor," Charlotte sighed in agreement. "He'll make Defense Against the Dark Arts bearable."
"He'll make it bearable, alright," Agatha huffed as she found an empty compartment. They'll never learn anything useful with him as professor. Which means, they had to do something.
As her friends poured through their new books while Abigail's miniature model of Glynnis Griffiths, Seeker of the Holyhead Harpies, flew around the compartment, Agatha began writing to the man her mother said was her actual maternal uncle. Using her copy of Hogwarts', A History as an hard surface.
…they say he's my father, and let's just say that due to the horrible things he's done, I'd rather not believe it, was the sentence she wrote when Miles exclaimed, "Now, what in the bloody Merlin is that?"
Agatha follows his gaze towards the window, and she could have sworn her eyes could have popped from her sockets at the sight of a ancient car (what Muggles used to go from place to place, according to Everyday Muggle Living) flying haphazardly through the air before it ascends and disappears from view.
She was just processing the flying car when her compartment door slid open. "Without being a pack of gits, can you say that you have seen Ron and Harry?" asked one of the Weasley Twins.
"Surely, they are on this train," Agatha replied. "Maybe a few compartments down."
"They haven't boarded the train," said the other one.
Haven't boarded the train. That, in itself, was concerning. "Well, then I'm afraid we can't help you with that," she said sadly. "Hopefully they'll turn up."
Well, they did come to the Platform, though maybe there was more at play to why Harry and Ron Weasley weren't at the train.
First, his relatives wouldn't let him answer her letters and now he is not on the train. Things seemed to be going swell for him. How would he get to Hogwarts if he missed the train?
When they arrived at the grounds, with great alarm, Agatha noticed a skeletal looking, winged horse guiding the carriage that was waiting for it's occupants. However, she did not gaze at this creature too long as she had to get moving. She believed it took her moments for it to realize that it was an Threstral that she was looking at.
During the Start of Term feast, thoughts regarding that Threstral were pushed away from her mind. After the Sorting (where a "Weasley, Ginerva" joined her brothers), word had spread that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley used a enchanted car to get to the school.
The morning of the new term was eventful regarding the Howler that Mrs. Weasley sent to Ron Weasley, regarding the incident with the flying car, had sent the Great Hall laughing. Especially from her table.
"Now, you wouldn't be laughing if it was you," she reminded Draco as Uncle Severus passed timetables for the year.
"Don't tell me that we have Lockhart before lunch," Graham groaned. "Anything but him."
"At least I have Muggle Studies before then," Agatha chimed in.
Yet even if it was not the first class, it was too close to be sitting in an class taught by him. Looking at the High Table, whatever story he was telling to Professors Burbage and Kettleburn was met with great disinterest.
Unfortunately, Muggle Studies passed too quickly and soon enough, they trooped to their first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson of the year.
Decorated on the walls were portraits of himself and worst of all, was a painting of him painting his likeness near the stairwell leading up to his office.
"Vain git," muttered Cassius as he and Agatha took their seats.
"Vain indeed," she replied. As she felt that the décor of the room was a taste of what was to come.
"Students," he announced, as he left his office and peered down at them from the balcony. "let me introduce your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher: me, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award."
As if we care, she thought, irritated that Professor Lockhart went on a vain fest at the start of class. Even if it was predictable.
"As I see that you have bought my published works with you, I want to see how well you read them." Professor Lockhart passes out packets of parchment with a flick of a wand. "Just a little quiz."
Glancing at her parchment packet, Agatha frowned as she gazed at the questions. What was stimulating about this tripe?
"These are all about him," Cassius muttered in exasperation, echoing her sentiments.
As she never cared to touch Lockhart's books, she would predictably not get the questions right. Though his fangirls would.
The rest of his class was spent with him recounting Break with the Banshee, and it didn't help that he chose her to reenact as said banshee. Something that resulted in Agatha fuming throughout lunch.
"If he really did the things he said he did, he wouldn't be flouncing like a peacock the way he does," she said as they approached the courtyard after lunch.
"Like that ex-Auror what's his name?" Cassius asked.
"Yeah, kind of like Mad-Eye," she clarified as she spotted Harry Potter. Remembering the letters that were in her schoolbag, she rushes over to him. "Harry, are these yours?"
At the site of the bundle in her hands, Harry's green eyes lit up with surprise and elation. "Thanks," he says, taking them from her hand as Ron and Hermione eye her warily. After an moment, there's an question: "So, he is your family's House Elf?"
"Dobby came to visit you?" she asked, bewildered how Dobby could go to Little Whinging without his absence being noticed by anyone in her family.
"I assume your brother thought it was funny to have one of them withhold our letters," Ron accused.
"Please," Agatha scoffs. "Not when one of my letters is among the bundle."
"Agatha, is it okay if I ask you something?" he asks.
"Sure, Harry," she beams.
"Your House Elf…did Dobby say anything about terrible things happening at Hogwarts this year?" he asked.
Agatha swallowed, remembering Dobby's ominous words. He never said it was about Hogwarts, but the fact that he seemed to give Harry that information was telling.
She opens her mouth to speak when a flash of light nearly blinds her.
They had all turned to see an very small, mousy-haired boy that was sorted into Gryffindor last night. Who staring at Harry as though transfixed. Ignoring her and Ron. He was holding one of those things that were in the showroom before the Muggle Studies classroom. An Muggle invented camera wasn't it?
"All right, Harry? I'm - I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. "I'm in Gryffindor, too. D'you think - would it be all right if - can I have a picture?" he said, raising the camera hopefully.
"A picture?" Harry repeated blankly. Agatha noticed the group that was forming to watch this exchange.
"So I can prove I've met you," said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forward. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead" (his eyes raked Harry's hairline) "and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move ." Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, "It's amazing here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman, he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you" - he looked imploringly at Harry – "maybe one of your friends could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"
"Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?"
With no surprise, it seemed this had caught her brother's attention. He had stopped right behind Colin, flanked by Vincent and Gregory.
"Everyone line up!" Draco roared to the crowd. "Harry Potter's giving out signed photos!"
"No, I'm not," said Harry angrily, his fists clenching. "Shut up, Malfoy."
"Be quiet, Draco!" Agatha spat. "Don't you have anything better to do?"
"You're just jealous," piped up Colin.
"Jealous?" Draco sputtered, who didn't need to shout anymore: half the courtyard was listening in to Agatha's great consternation. There he goes again, making an scene of everything. "Of what? I don't want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself."
"You're jealous of the attention that comes with it, Draco," Agatha pointed out before moving to tug her brother out of the way before he could cause more trouble.
"Eat slugs, Malfoy," said Ron angrily.
"Be careful, Weasley," sneered Draco. "You don't want to start any trouble or your Mommy'll have to come and take you away from school." He put on a shrill, piercing voice. "If you put another toe out of line –"
Nearby, Violet Berkshire, Randolph Green and their friends who were one year above her laughed loudly at this. "Enough," Agatha said, grabbing Draco by the arm. And perhaps it was an good thing that she dragged him away for Lockhart was approaching the Courtyard. Eyeing the dissipating scene with avid interest. And she thought she'd seen enough of him for one day.
"Draco, can you stop trying to cause an scene for once?" Agatha demanded in exasperation. From her periphery, she could see Lockhart talking to Harry. Who'd very much looked like he wanted to evaporate from where he was standing.
"I didn't do anything," he said. "Creevey was the one that said anything about pictures before I did."
"Of course, blame everyone else," she sighed.
Fortunately, it was not long before they all trooped to Charms. Which was a breath of fresh air compared to the poor excuse of an lesson with Professor Lockhart. And for their last class of the day, Agatha was brimming with satisfaction when Uncle Severus said at the beginning of Potions: "You might find this lesson more stimulating then the joke that Lockhart teaches."
Before dinner, Agatha stopped at the school owlry with her letter. Tying it to the leg of an barn owl. Watching as it flew away, she hoped it would get to him. Though maybe she wouldn't blame him if he did not respond. For an letter from an niece he probably doesn't know about would throw him off.
"Why can't we have Quirrell back?" Flint complained, as she sat for dinner.
"He released a horde of Cornish Pixies," Draco moaned. "How are we going to learn anything from that."
Releasing Cornish Pixies? "Well, at least your class was more eventful then mine," Agatha said in response. "He made us do a quiz about himself followed by a recounting of Breaking with the Banshee, and he chose me to play said Banshee."
"I don't know why that would be anything to be upset about," Charlotte pitched in, reading her copy of Gadding with Ghouls. "Anyone would have played the part of the banshee that he fought."
"Wait, he made you take that quiz too?" asked Blaise Zabini.
"How daft is he?" said Miles aloud.