First, an apology for all who have followed this story. This chapter took a long time, and you all may blame Larian Studios, and my own lack of self-control for that. Baldurs Gate 3 had me addicted. Now, my fifth playthrough done, I can finally get back to writing my projects, including this.

Why was she on the couch, Agatha wondered. Ah, yes, of course, she had insisted on watching the sun go down over the Black lake while reading Ardeleans collection of reports. She hadn't even seen the light turn orange, before falling into Morpheus' arms.

Her eyes were still so heavy. She couldn't muster the strength, or will, or mood, to open them yet. Somewhere, an open window let the smell of early morning blow into the living room and library. The soft aromas of dew and wet grass, of pines, moss and leaves on the forest floor, of algae and fresh water. They intermingled with the smell of coffee, flaky pastry and wild berry marmalade close by her.

In all this, she couldn't even find traces of perfume, or scented oils. There was no shadow of rose and lavender soaps, no phantom of sage and mint from dental potions.

Fleur had not returned home.

Her protesting arms moved slowly to her chest, where a weight settled on her that she still couldn't define, nor describe. It was silly; childish, really. It was unreasonable to think that Fleur would return, once she was alone, and could think of the events in peace. Despite that small, tender moment they had shared, why would she? Agatha was Fleur's latest near-death experience. Any sane creature removed themselves from such situations.

Why had she even sat with her on the balcony? Shock? Pity?

She tried to take a deep breath, but it came shallow and jittery. Of course, she wouldn't have left before all was clear, but now? Now she had every possibility to be wherever she wanted. Not here. Not in Britain. Definitely not with her in this house. It was back to square one. Styx and her imps would have to do.

Had she even tried to take a step outside that square? Coward that she was, she hadn't. So much she could admit. She would never. She didn't know how; what to say, what to do or even completely why. All compassion became manipulation, all empathy a cruel deception with her, by her very nature. Didn't it?

Her hand grasped her robes. She couldn't breathe. She had to get out. Claws ripped open the leather and wool, tearing at it until she could feel the cool draft over her skin. Still, she could not breathe. She tried sucking in air, but she couldn't. She shook. She shivered. She was sore, and everything hurt, and she couldn't breathe.

She rolled over. The coffee-table fell over, and crashed down alongside the breakfast. Her knees were on the floor, and her claws in the stuffing of the couch. She clawed at her chest. She drew blood. She felt that - pain, blood trickling. At least something real.

She couldn't breathe.

She couldn't open her eyes.

She had almost killed Fleur. She had lost control. Like she was loosing it now. So utterly weak, it was pathetic.

She couldn't fucking breathe. She couldn't bloody see. Everything hurt so god-damned much. Every muscle spasmed, every fibre of her body cramped, and every nerve burned.

Umbridge was out there. The kids. They would die. And Voldemort was out there. Harry would die.

She couldn't breathe.

Bellatrix would haunt her. She could hear her laugh. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't scream. She could do nothing against any of it.

She should have stayed back. Stayed away. What was she thinking, being here?

Why couldn't she breathe?

Bright light. It flickered before her. She couldn't see. She couldn't open her eyes. Why did everything hurt so much? Something was between her teeth. The light, again. Her jaw, pressed down and held.

She drowned. She had to spit. No, her mouth was closed. Something pressed it shut. Swallow.

"The mistress must calm herself."

Styx. Her arms smashed against his hard, porcelain body. She clawed at them, trying to grab them, anchor herself onto them.

"Calm, mistress."

Her eyes shot open, yet still, everything was a blur. She felt the cold exterior of Styx in her hands, and grasped it even tighter, until every finger whitened from the pressure. She took a deep breath, and finally, air. Finally, she could breathe. She breathed, she coughed, and gasped for more air. All of her shrank into herself until she had wrapped herself around Styx, into their arms and against their cold body.

"Calm now, mistress." they whispered. "The mistress had a difficult couple of days. She must rest. She must take all the time she needs."

She smelled the distinct flowery scent of baldrian on her face. Calming Draught. Bit by bit, feeling came back to her. She was soaked in cold sweat, her face was a tear-stained mess, and she felt some muscles sore, and torn from the cramps. Stuffing and fabric from the couch stuck to her, glued onto her skin by sweat, tears and spilt draught.

Styx picked her up with the utmost care. He placed her among some pillows, and only when they were sure she wouldn't keel over, did they let go.

Even with the calming draught doing its work, her hands still shook like Aspen leaves in the wind. Every breath of air came shaky. Coughs and hiccups made breathing even harder.

"Parchment."

"What would the mistress want with parchment?"

"Letters. To the kids. I need to warn them." Agatha chocked out. "Maybe add a portkey."

Styx nodded like they received an order. "This one has anticipated this. The task is done, already."

"Styx, you…"

"This one recommends the mistress to rest."

"Who enchanted the letters?"

"The mistress' father. He, too, was worried." They pushed Agatha back into the pillows. "All is in good hands. All is well. Should the children be afraid, they will find themselves behind the mistress' wards."

"Nothing is well," Agatha groaned. Now that the stress subsided, she felt her body protest even the slightest of motions. It all came from her stomach. It was hunger, evolved to a feeling of starvation, and Agatha knew well what would sate it. Like an addict, she was feeling the withdrawal of not having eaten life essence. Like an alcoholic who felt the morbid draw to intoxication just by smelling whiskey, her close encounter with a soul ready to eat left her empty, and her body in shambles. The gurgling and cramping of her stomach was a mere symptom, just like her jaw that tensed, her teeth that felt like they would fall out any second, and her mind that still threatened to spiral into frenzied panic.

"Should this one contact…?"

"Absolutely not," she ground out, while she shrunk into a ball, to somehow get the cramps under control. "You will… will not. I really… do not… need mother here."

"She could help."

"She'd want… want something… for it." she stuttered along, pressing out words in-between laboured breaths. "Just… let me… lie here."

"As the mistress commands," Styx bedded her under some blankets, and laid her head onto the softest pillow they could find, only to watch her bend and twist with the cramps and muscle spasms; her heavy breath and sweat stained forehead. "This one will take matters into their own hands, should the mistress' condition worsen."

Agatha could only nod. Sure, Styx, do your thing, but leave her be.

She remembered the last time. Back then when she hadn't held back. The soul had coloured her eyes red, and made her fingernails grow into claws. Her eyes had bled for days, and she hadn't been able to move her fingers without pain for a month, while the demonic side of her conquered just some; just a tiny bit of her humanity. Agony was part of the package, if she indulged or not. It was either her human side suffering, or her demonic side. With souls, she could only lose.

At least suffering from withdrawal didn't come with the pain of shame, and guilt. Well, it was just the usual shame. It was just nature reminding her of her place. Mother earth was putting a bit of emphasis on the old accusation that becomes physical reminder, that she wasn't fully of this world, nor of the other. Always tolerated, never accepted.

At least she had been able to keep it together long enough for her to crash in private. She didn't want to imagine the fallout of the Executors seeing how much of a struggle it was for her to abstain from consuming souls. Some of them may get the idea of "better safe than sorry", and she couldn't; wouldn't blame them.

"Agatha?"

All she could see was a blur. Had she been asleep? Didn't she have her eyes open? How did anyone get into the room without her noticing?

She shivered. Beneath her, the couch was soaking wet, from sweat as cold as ice.

"Agatha, can you hear me?"

She blinked, and tried to focus on whoever stood before her. She knew the voice. Her burning headache made her slow, but the only person with any reason for being here that would be a beige and grey blur would be her very own shrink. "Thirteen?" She startled herself at the sound of her voice. It was a weak, pathetic wheeze.

"Alright. Words. Good. Your companion, uhm, Styx was it? He…"

"They,"

"What?"

"They prefer to…" Agatha coughed. Bile had accumulated like a cork, and it decided now was the time to get coughed up.

"Oh, dear" Thirteen held her as the coughs rocked her entire body, until Agatha finally spit up a bloody clotted clump of bile. "They said you're in dire straits, but I- I- I'm not a healer. I don't know what's going on. I-"

"I… almost ate… a soul." Agatha snatched Thirteen's hand, and held it with an iron grip. Something to hold onto, something to anchor herself in a room that swam away in her vision, and circled like a carousel.

"You,... what?" Thirteen hissed at the grasp, but made no effort to escape it. "You almost did?"

"Yes," Agatha wheezed out. "The demon part… doesn't like… to be teased."

"The mistress is experiencing something akin to withdrawal symptoms." Styx was somewhere she couldn't see, a bit away. She hated how their voice sounded, as if they too were in pain.

"Withdrawal? Have you - do you… need souls?" Thirteen loosened her own grip on her hand, like preparing to jump away. "I- I- don't think I can… bloody hell, I can't get you a soul, if…"

Despite herself, Agatha began to chuckle. More a wheeze, and rasps than a laughter, she couldn't help but find the helplessness of Thirteen endearing. "No. No souls."

"The mistress doesn't require souls to live." Styx came around the couch, standing as a silhouette in front of the large window-wall. "She requires rest, and calm, and someone she listens to. This one's options were limited."

"And you came to me?" Thirteen whirled around to Styx. "What's with her father, her housemate? You know, anyone besides her mandatory mental state evaluator?"

"This one sought a compromise between duty and friendship." Styx stated, as if they had fully explained the situation. "Miss Thirteen is more than capable, this one is sure."

"Well, I guess? If I'd know what to do." Thirteen looked around the room, grasping for any straw to hold onto. "Styx, grab some new clothes, would ya? Something comfortable." She pulled her wand, and with a few mumbled words, Agatha felt the cold sweat vanish from her body and the couch beneath her.

She was pulled up to sit, but it felt to her like the world was tumbling all around her. Thirteen got rid of Agatha's robes, and immediately the cool air embraced her as a welcome respite. Styx' cold hands tried to ease her into new clothing, but Agatha weakly refused. She didn't care about decency, right now. She cared about the cool breeze over her skin.

"Al- Alright. Underwear it is, then. Good. Alright. Okay." Thirteen stammered. "Blimey,"

"Do I... make you... nervous?" Agatha laughed, raspy like an eighty-year-old chain smoker, followed by a cough that reverberated through her flesh and bones. Bile came up, and she spat it on the floor, not really caring about anything but getting it out of her mouth.

"Agatha, no offense, but you currently have the sex appeal of a Knockturn Alley regular."

"Fair," she nodded, and instantly the world turned again for her. Thirteen, with a little yelp, caught her and laid her down onto the cushions of the couch as best as she could. Face down, Agatha bit into the couch, tearing the fabric, all to keep the scream down to a growl while her muscles began cramping again. Her claws soon followed, ripping into the cushions. Spasms rocked her again. It felt like her stomach wanted to turn itself inside out.

"Bloody hell, your muscles! What's happening? Styx?" Thirteen shouted.

"The mistress experiences cramps."

"Cramps?! That looks like something wants to crawl out of her. Don't you have potions?"

"Potions have no effect. Nothing physical, nor arcane creates these cramps." Styx held their cold hands to Agatha's forehead, trying to cool her down, if nothing else. "The mistress has to face the struggle of her essence without aid."

"The struggles of her essence?" Thirteen mumbled. She held her chin, thinking for a moment. "I- I mean, I don't know what to do, but can I just try something?"

"You are welcome to." Styx answered.

Thirteens steps vanished into the hallway, and for a moment Agatha thought the metamorph just made a run for it. The clinking of glass, followed by a few of them hitting the floor with a crash, told her otherwise.

"Miss Thirteen..." Styx started to go look and see what happened, but was stopped by Agatha clawing into his golden joints.

"Sorry," came from the hallway. "Someone is a bit of a soap hoarder in this household, but I found it."

While Agatha still clawed her way through the stuffing, down to the springs, Thirteen sat down next to her. "Again, no idea if this works, but here goes."

Agatha hissed, when she felt cool fluid run own her spine. Even the soft touch of liquid fired through her body like electric shocks. Before she could think on the sensation too long, her entire body screamed at her. Thirteen's hands, especially her thumbs, pressed into her hard enough to make her spine crack. Agatha's back bowed in pain, until her spine refused to go any further. As if Thirteen wanted to stretch out her muscles she pulled up and down Agatha's back. The wooden frame of the couch splintered with Agatha's claws ripping into it in a last ditch effort to keep her screams in.

She groaned and growled into the cushions. Thirteen now even leaned over her, pressing harder and following the lines and fibres of her muscles with her hands. Agatha was close to loosing her senses; close to throwing the metamorph off of her, when one muscle slipped back into position.

Growls became long, suffering sighs. The pain became dull. The more Thirteen pressed certain points, or stroked certain muscles, the more the pain became a phantom. Tired, and unbothered by propriety, Agatha felt as her voice came back. The knots and bile that had tightened her vocal cords subsided, the grumbling in her stomach became softer and more a vibration than cramping spasms.

"Are you... purring?" Thirteen's smile was heard in her voice.

"It's a succubus thing." Agatha tasted the words. Her voice was still raspy, but she was surprised by the velvet undertone it had. "What are you doing?"

"It's a massage?"

"I feel that, but why?"

"Don't you like it?"

"Don't you stop." Agatha chuckled weakly, stopped by another muscle letting go of its tension, pressing the air out of her in the process. "Seriously. Don't. Please."

Thirteen laughed, and put even more effort into her technique. "Why? Lucky guess. Styx saying something about the struggle of your essence gave me the idea."

"Huh?"

Thirteen gave herself a moment before answering. "Metamorphs have a similar problem, especially when we're younger. Whenever I morphed a lot while stressed, my bodies began hurting. Not like your spasms, mind you, but more like my skin and bones stretched and tore apart. I can't really describe it." she sighed, somewhere between fond and dark memory. "Mum was helpless, but my dad, he asked his muggle cousin to help me. She's a massage therapist, as they call 'em."

"She massaged your body back into form, huh?" Agatha chuckled at the images in her head, of a metamorph being moulded back into a coherent form by massages, like a clay sculpture. Imagining the confused look of a witch mother and muggleborn father proud of himself for the idea made her smile.

Then it made her mind grind to a screeching halt. While Thirteen continued to massage Agatha, her mind arranged the puzzle pieces and putting them together was an easy exercise for her. Witch mother, with a muggleborn father. Agatha vaguely remembered hearing the words "Blimey" and "Bloody hell", a reference to Knockturn Alley, spoken with a decidedly nervous, panicking cockney accent, just to be corrected back into good ol' textbook English the next sentence.

Chance of a lifetime, huh? More like a spying mission. She didn't think of it, but of course her father would be more interested in her mental state when she roamed the British Isles. Who better as a watchdog than an underappreciated Auror metamorph to send in and oversee her, lured by the promise of a prestigious career?

Burning rage built up in her, only to be forgotten the next moment when Thirteen - when Tonks hit an especially sore spot that elicited a rumbling purr from her. Agent of her father or not, she was here, she went out of her way to help her. She even figured out how to get her soul-withdrawal spasms in check.

Furthermore, Agatha was not sure if she could even muster the strength for revenge right now.

It was unlikely that Tonks was fully part of this plan. A pawn, more like, placed with precision while information was sparse enough to leave them guilt- and clueless. Still, she couldn't ignore the betrayal of trust. Her rage aimed itself onto the occupant of the headmaster's tower. However, for Tonks, she figured she could have her fun with her. Turn the table, as it were.

"Hey, Thirteen?"

"Mhm?"

"Would it be too much to ask to talk. Like we did?" Agatha sighed deep. She let the breath out, shaking and somewhat sounding like a sob. "I could use it, honestly."

"Oh, uhm, of course. I don't suppose I need to ask how you're doing in general. What is on your mind?"

"Well... it's stupid." Agatha dug her head into the pillows. "Being back in Britain is challenging for me... when it comes to feelings."

"Well, all this mess is a consequence of you rescuing Miss Delacour, if I am correct. How has your relationship progressed since then? Any milestones?"

"Some, yes." Agatha gave herself a long pause for dramatic effect. "It became rather complicated."

"How so?"

"Fleur knows little of my feelings. She still likes Bill, I think. Bill wants to keep his distance, but only for me, not because he has no interest in Fleur. Then there is me... torn between Fleur, and a fourth who knows nothing of all this."

"A fourth? I hope you're not referencing Mister Fortescue again."

Agatha chuckled. "No. I'm serious. She doesn't know about any of this, and I'm unsure if I should ever tell her. She has her eyes on someone else, I think. I shouldn't interfere."

"Your happiness isn't worth less than someone else's, you know." Tonks said softly, while letting her fist circle Agatha's lower back. "If you don't let them know, you will never give them the chance to choose you."

"She is also entangled with my father,..." Agatha gave another long, suffering sigh. "It's complicated, as I said."

"Do you want to tell me about her?"

"I think I do, actually. I haven't told anyone else." Agatha made sure to hide her grin in the cushions. "She is an Auror. Smart, kind, has that happy-go-lucky aura. Cute smile, hell of a figure, purple hair, but that's all not permanent. She is a metamorph like you, you see."

Agatha had to muster all her remaining strength to not laugh when she felt Tonks jerk in shock. As if nothing had happened, she continued the massage. "O- Oh, I see..." she cleared her throat. "Do you plan on telling her anytime soon?"

"I suppose I could, but I haven't talked much with her. It may just be a bit of an infatuation."

Agatha let her words linger a bit, feeling if Tonks' hands gave any indication of her emotions, but she had herself under control. She decided to poke further. "Then again, even her name is a promise. Nym-Pha-Do-Ra." she stretched the syllables like molasses, rolling the R so much, Tonks must have felt it rumbling through her chest.

"What an... exotic name." Tonks deadpanned, though she did knead Agatha's shoulder-muscles with a bit more force than necessary.

"It is as unique as she is, but alas, I heard she dislikes it." She murmured. "So, what do you think? Should I tell her? She seems to have a soft spot for tortured and broken things. I'd fit right in."

"What do you mean by that?" Tonks voice was strained. Agatha probed, and when she found wounds, she stuck her finger in it.

"Oh, I have a pretty good nose, you know. She gets a bit agitated when she meets a certain werewolf with an especially horrid backstory. Man has more baggage than the Hogwarts Express in September, but she doesn't seem to mind." Agatha halted a bit, feigning a thinking pause. "So, again, do you think I should offer her the other baggage cart?"

"You won't know until you ask her."

Now, Agatha had expected a rather decisive "No" covered in some phrase, which made her frown into the cushions at Tonk's answer. Had she miscalculated? If she was honest with herself, she hadn't really spent a lot of time around Tonks. All encounters were by chance, and passing. Could she have missed Tonks having a thing for her? She was usually well aware of any physical interest in her, but then again, metamorphs were hard to read on the best of days. Which made her think that the jig was up. Her anger had long been made into mush, just as her muscles.

"Right." Agatha leaned up onto her lower arms, cracking her shoulders and spine a bit. "So, how is this for an opener? Hey Tonks, wanna fuck until I forgot how to speak English?"

Tonks snorted a laugh. "Solid. Good start. Maybe ask her out first?"

"Oh, should I? I felt like we were already on that level, given that she rubbed my naked back for the last thirty minutes."

Tonks jumped up from the couch with the speed of a Firebolt. She stammered some unintelligible words, and her entire body became shrunk together in every dimension. "When- When. When did you...?"

Agatha slowly turned on the couch. She had to give it to the metamorph, she had done wonders with her hands. To think that some muggle technique could do what all of magical medicine couldn't. She came to lie on her side, giving Tonks the most devilish smirk. "It clicked when you referenced your parents. Slipping into your accent also didn't help."

"And you still let me give you a massage?"

"Well, yes, of course. It would have taken hours for those cramps to subside on their own. Your deception aside, thank you."

"I am so sorry, I didn't..."

"Mean to?"

"Betrayal." Styx stated, emotions dangerously absent from their voice. Even more than usual.

"Well, no, I... Yes. Maybe? Bloody hell." Tonks morphed, back into her usual form of the purple-pink haired spitfire, which now looked rather misplaced in the beige and grey clothes Thirteen wore. "It was a chance to get out of the Aurors. I couldn't not take it. I'm so sorry."

"Out of the Aurors?"

"Aye," Tonks slumped down onto the armchair next to the couch. "One month and I already messed it up."

"Wait, wait," Agatha huffed when she sat up. While the pain was gone, her muscles sure as hell were sore and rather sensible to the touch. "Start from the beginning. Out of the Aurors?"

Tonks sighed, wiped her face that grew impossibly long with the last, long stroke downwards, only to snap back into place. "When I joined I thought I'd do good, solve crimes, keep everyone safe. Turns out you're mostly just the Minister cabinet's royal guard, that happens to fight crime once in a while."

"So my father offered you entrance to the Masked Corps?"

"He did, but when I realized that these sessions aren't just some form of debrief,... I swear on me life, I never told him anything. I would never…" Tonks stopped at Agatha's slightly raised hand.

"I believe you. I thought so. It is unlikely that you are more than a pawn in this game."

"Ouch. But I guess I deserve that."

"My father is whom I mistrust. He knows, regardless of what you said."

"What do you mean? No, he wouldn't?"

Agatha stared her right into the eyes. With the slightest push of Legilimency she sent her answer straight into Tonks' thoughts. "My father knows little boundaries when it comes to the pursuit of knowledge, especially when it concerns family."

"Nooo…" Tonks fell back into the armchair. Her eyes grew larger, and her frown deeper, eventually reaching surreal proportions, before she whispered. "That wanker,"

"One of the smartest men alive, and can't figure out how to ask his daughter how she's doing without sending in agents to spy on her."

"The ICW is the same bloody thing, innit?"

"No, not even close." Agatha answered. "I'd say that is just your relationship with my father."

"I mean, he is…"

"Albus Dumbledore, yeah, yeah, I heard that line a thousand times, as if it means anything by itself.." Agatha glared at the wall, in the direction of the headmaster's tower. "Powerful, Intelligent, but bloody hell, he's disgustingly human all too often."

"He always seemed like such a good guy." Tonks mumbled. She sank even deeper into the armchair, as even the last of her cheer left her.

"He is." Agatha shrugged, and immediately regretted it. With a hiss of pain, she continued. "If one thing is true about Albus Dumbledore, it's that he wants to do good. He's just horribly incompetent when it comes to feelings; empathy. He is a product of his surroundings. That I understood very early in my life."

"Given his history…?" Tonks had an apologetic smile, but Agatha didn't mind. She nodded.

"What? The two times he loved in his life, and both turned out to be monsters. Why would that break a man?" she answered, sarcasm dripping from her words. Agatha thought about the dead man walking in Nurmengard. One of Grindelwald's greatest crimes was surely the breaking of Albus Dumbledore's heart. Fate decreed that it would be followed by the Coup de grâce, Maximillian Stravos, better known as Anes'Rath, to finish the kill with the fiendish hunt for an archmage's soul. "It explains, but doesn't excuse his behaviour."

"If nothing else, it's relatable," Tonks said with a tone that carried incredible amounts of resentment.

Agatha snorted a laugh. "You seem like you're jumping over the mystery, though, and straight to the monster. A werewolf, and Thirteen didn't say no to me asking you out, either?"

"Neither of you are monsters."

"The jury is still out on my case, and cynicism aside he's still, what? 20 something years older than you?"

"I don't feel like I have to morph around to fit him." Tonks mumbled. She picked up a pillow and hugged it tight to her. "Just stay and be as I am, you know?"

"And I give you the same feeling?"

Tonks shook her head, while hiding it behind the pillow. Her head blushed in a deep, unnatural red. "No." came the muffled answer.

"What is it, then?" Agatha prodded. "You owe me that, at least."

"I feel like, hmm…" she started, still talking into the pillow. "Knowing you only from afar, I feel like I could morph as much as I want with you."

"Hmm," Agatha nodded, rubbing her chin. "Accurate, actually. I don't think I'd ever get tired of it."

"And both of you know how it is… being something else than normal."

"Preach," Agatha also grabbed a pillow, now. It felt like that sort of conversation. "I guess that's also why Fleur… well, whatever she is to me now."

"Your abilities are sorta comparable?"

"That is just the thing. I don't know how to deal with that on the one hand, but enjoy not having to constantly decipher my life's experiences just to explain them to her. I know I'm a mess. I don't want to be permanently reminded, and I certainly don't want to constantly analyse why I'm like that."

Tonks head came out from behind the pillow with a start. Her open hand gesturing at Agatha she almost shouted. "Yes! That is exactly it! No, Hadrian, I don't want to morph for you, and no I don't want to just give you a little more to play with, and No, I don't want to explain why."

"Dear gods," Agatha groaned. "I don't know the guy and already despise him."

"Just the latest loser who assured me he 'liked me as I am', and then got pissy when I wouldn't suffocate him under cauldron sized tits."

"Oh, fuck these people." Agatha hit the couch, despite the electric pain that shot up her arm. "For some reason, everyone I ever dated wanted to eventually just try being with an Incubus, and hey, it can't be that big of a deal to change, can it? No, Sadi, it takes me a few days, and I'm not comfortable being a man. Just date a dude, if you need it so bad."

"Wait, you can shapeshift?"

"Meh, barely." Agatha shook her hand in a so-so gesture. "Just from female to male and back, or somewhere in between. And no matter how often I say I don't want to be male…"

"Eventually they'll ask."

"Eventually, they always ask."

With a synchronized sigh, they both fell back into the upholstery, just in time to see a service of baked goods hover by onto the table.

"This one has taken the liberty to prepare for an easy day. Again." Styx spoke from the kitchens. Neither of them had noticed them leaving, such was their talent as the self-proclaimed butler of the house. Carrying a small tablet full of marmalades with them, Styx entered the living room, with their ghosts seeming more serene around them. "The mistress must eat, and Miss Tonks is invited to stay and partake."

"I am?" Tonks stared at Styx, then to Agatha. "Am I?"

"Sure. I'm having fun, which I didn't at all expect to have today." Agatha mumbled through her first bite of croissant and wildberry marmalade. "Honestly, what a wild morning."

"Can I ask why me?" Tonks morphed back into the neutral, nondescript face of Thirteen. "Why her?"

"The mistress refused her mother's help, would not appreciate her father's, nor would she be thankful if this one involved her friends into a moment of weakness. The one sworn to secrecy, yet care, seemed a good compromise." Styx' voice became cold once more. "Even though this one has overestimated the secrecy."

"I am so…"

"Don't apologize to them again, they're just angry that they were fooled." Agatha gave her porcelain companion a knowing smile.

"Apologies accepted." Styx proclaimed, and went back to the kitchen once more, always in earshot.

"While you are invited to stay, don't you have a job to get to?"

Tonks smirked at her. "Not since this morning, I don't. Bones got what she wanted. Bunch'a hitwizards and one bloody scary Executor came and handed out immediate discharges left and right, by the Director's orders. That included Order members." She shrugged. "'s not like I'll miss it. I only kept being an Auror to keep watch for the Order."

"Gregorius works fast, as usual." Agatha made a mental note to thank the dread inducing Executor. Gregorius didn't just drop everything for anyone. "How is the ministry taking it?"

Tonks snorted a laugh. "At one point I expected Savage to mount a revolt. Well, I would have backed out too if some half-giant sized man brandished a massive cat-o-nine-tails and started chanting latin at me."

"Did he do scripture quotes as well?"

"And after the sop Nessus entered into him. Then said the Third Pillar unto him, That thou doest, do quickly!" Tonk intoned with vigor. "Savage apparated away, after that. Quickly, mind."

"The preacher knows how to call someone a traitor with style." Agatha waved her hand, to gently make space on the coffee-table. Another flick of her wrist made the stack of documents fly over that she had gotten from Ardelean. "In other words, you're free for some private hitwizard work? Ever wondered what Voldemort did while he was gone?"

She shrugged. "I always assumed he was dead, and got resurrected?"

"Your guess is as good as mine was. However, we have proof that he was, in some form, living. Existing, rather. Something anchored him in this world, or at least protected him from the next."

"Quirrel?" Tonks said while grabbing the first bit of parchments to peruse.

"Only at the very end of his recovery. Here," Agatha handed Tonks a meticulous journal, written by a young magizoologist. "This guy found the usual venomous snakes, with some grown unnaturally large. Twenty pages later, they're going after unicorns in Albania. He couldn't make head or tails of it, but my former tutor knew what he was looking at."

"Unicorn blood? So that actually was Voldemort four years ago?"

"Quirrel and Voldemort. He started out with snakes. Eventually, he seemed to have gathered enough strength to dominate humans."

"Roughly seven years ago, I wager." Tonks pointed at a hastily scribbled report. "Romanian dragonbreeder. He noticed a young wyrm bringing hunted unicorns to its nest. Apparently, he decided to investigate this suicidal behaviour. Report says he got eaten, but dragons aren't known for licking the plate clean, are they?"

"No, something would have been found."

"The dragonbreeder was gone, and the wyrm 'died of damage to the brain'." Tonks clicked her tongue. "Does sound like something a coroner writes if they want to cover something up."

"The possession of a dragon, and subsequently of a human, would've certainly brought unwanted attention to the area. There are plenty of organizations there that are interested in keeping the current anarchy as is, and Voldemort may have been one of them." Agatha pointed at the report. "Is there a hint as to who might be interested in keeping this quiet?"

"Hmm," Tonks started browsing through the journal and the parchments that came with it. She pointed at one end of a letter. "Signed, Roman Miranovic."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"Your colleague's bell did ring, though." Tonks grabbed a note, a small torn piece of parchment stuck to the letter, and handed it over.

"Oh," Agatha could only grin at it. In Ardelean's fine script, "Dolohov's cousin. Necromancer." was written on it.

"Could the necromancer have helped him?"

"I'm not sure." Agatha took her wand, and with a few flicks and swishes, a small blackboard became ten times as large and attached itself to the wall. "I hope you brought some time."

"We're doing strings?"

Agatha used her wand to have a stick of chalk write "Miranovich" and "Dolohov" onto the board. A slow turn and a conjured string of red wool made a line between the two. Wide grin, Agatha nodded to Tonks. "Aye. We're doing strings."

The neutral, bright light of Narcissa's room was the only thing that felt off. Harry's hands were shaking slightly. The only sign of his nerves. Otherwise he had steeled himself for what was to come; the conversation that was about to happen across the bed, between so announced "visitors" of Narcissa.

St. Mungos was many things for the magical community, but usually it didn't serve as a place of political manoeuvres. However, there was a certain understanding among factions about Mungo's that made it a safe place in chaos. Safe enough for Harry and his "pet dog" to wait for an answer to his invitation.

He was reminded of backroom deals in smoke filled rooms, around an old poker table. Scenes he had seen on Vernon's favourite TV shows. It felt surreal to be at such a proverbial table. Even more so, to be the one who waited on a guest to arrive.

"You are nervous." Narcissa stated. Her recovery had been swift, though not without sacrifices. Her eyes remained blinded. She still wore a band, though the linen and bandages have been exchanged for fine, embroidered green silk. Ever the aristocrat, Narcissa acted as if she was in the best of health, especially since she served as their alibi to meet. "Amelia is no one to be afraid of… as long as you're innocent, that is."

"I'm not afraid of the Director." Harry answered, while looking at his twisting thumbs. "I'm afraid of the pressure she must experience, and I'm afraid I won't be enough of a counterpressure."

"Hence why you must offer her a way to let some steam out of the kettle, if you will. We have been over this. Do not pressure her. Offer her the solution she yearns for."

"What did you say? The difference between allies and enemies is how you absolve them of their worries?"

"Precisely," Narcissa nodded. "You offer options to both, you take advantage of both, but your allies stand prouder for it, while your enemies have - best case - perished because of it. So, Harry, what will you say, so the Director may stand prouder?"

He glanced over to the Daily Prophet on the sideboard, where the grim, unmoving visage of an enormous man, an Executor, stared straight at the reader. The Prophet was but one step away from proclaiming civil war; one careless stroke of the pen away from calling Director Bones a traitor. The ICW took over the Auror bureau, and whatever political balance had been established at the beginning of summer, was utterly broken. Fudge hadn't been seen outside his office for days now, while Umbridge and her ilk spewed unfiltered vitriol throughout the hallways of the Ministry. "Solving the Black case may give Bones some serious-"

"Some Sirius leverage." Narcissa quipped, and began giggling about her own joke.

She got a flat stare from Harry, and a low, exasperated growl from Snuffles. Not that she could see his stare, but he was sure she could feel it.

"Oh, let me have my fun, you two." she waved them off.

"Tired jokes aside, yes. I just hope she sees it the same way." Harry said. "The prophet isn't far off the mark. Civil war seems inevitable as things stand. Someone has to step up, and there are moments when I hate the fact it can't be me."

"Not yet," Narcissa took a breath to speak more, when a knock on the door interrupted her. The distinct sound of wood on wood, down at the floor, let them know that Moody had been allowed to escort Amelia Bones.

The old, grizzled Auror stepped in first, and positioned himself into a corner where he could see up and down the hallway with his magical eye. Amelia Bones, dressed in a civilian robe, came in after him. "Narcissa. I hope you are well. Mr. Potter. I have high expectations for this meeting. Do not disappoint them."

"Never better." Narcissa answered, quick to not gather more attention than necessary.

"I'll do my best, Director."

Facing each other over Narcissa's bed, Amelia Bones and Harry stared at each other for a while. Harry found the Director looking tired; exhausted. She, in turn, made no secret about her analysis of him. Her eyes darted over his face and body, looking for any gesture, any light spasm of a muscle.

"What do you gain from this?" she asked.

Harry opened his mouth, but couldn't even utter a single word before she continued. "You do gain something. Do not lie to me. If I suspect even the slightest subterfuge; even the whitest of lies, I'll stand up and walk. Now, having heard this warning… speak!"

"Fair enough," Harry leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He smiled lightly, feeling - no - knowing that she was desperate and tired. The Director didn't threaten him, she begged for honesty, in her own way. "My gain is family. My gain is justice close to my heart. Sirius Black is no murderer, neither of muggles nor of wizards. I have known this for two years, now. The night Minister Fudge came to Hogwarts with a dementor to administer the Kiss to a captured Sirius Black, my friends and I were able to rescue him, knowing that he was innocent, but unable to prove it. Nobody listened to us, until now."

"I'm listening. Tell me. Everything."

"I will, but first, here." Harry reached into his pocket, and produced three memory vials. "This holds Sirius' memories. The other two are the memory of Hermione Granger and my own. We felt it prudent to include several perspectives."

"I will take my time with these." She took them, and carefully placed them in padded containers. Magical locks weaved over the wooden containers like vines over a wall, closing them shut. "However, please tell me, in your own words, what happened. I promise to keep an open mind until you're done."

One last look towards Narcissa, and Harry began to tell her everything. Beginning with the torn portrait of the Fat Lady, until their goodbye and Sirius voyage to safety on the back of a hippogriff, which too had been marked for death. He spared no detail, nor involvement. While Bones seemed indifferent, maybe even vindicated, when she heard the names of Snape and Lupin, she perked up when Harry reached the details of Pettigrew's machinations, starting from his treason to his involvement in the Triwizard abduction.

Bones had looked Harry in the eye for the entirety of his story, but at that moment, her eyes shot down to the dog at the foot of Narcissa's bed. "Really? Once, shame on him, but not only twice, but four times did Pettigrew play you? For your sake I hope you stopped underestimating him."

Snuffles perked up in shock, and Harry saw the telltale signs of him transforming back into his human form. Bones saw it too, and quickly shut him down by the look in her eyes alone. "Down boy. Not yet."

She looked back at Harry, and for the first time since her arrival, she smiled at him. "You brought him. Honesty to this degree is refreshing. You have earned the benefit of the doubt. Both of you. The kill-on-sight order will be revoked. For the rest, I can make no promises."

"Let me help with the politics." Harry leaned forward even more. "Tell me what you need, and I tell you what I can provide."

"Pettigrew, ideally." Bones also leaned forward. "Your voice at my side, more realistically. Strokes of luck aside, we won't get our hands on Pettigrew. What we can get are votes. I can rally mine, but can you get the Phoenix to do the same?"

"I'm not their leader."

"Indeed, but their leader's apprentice, if rumours are to be believed." Amelia chuckled at his doubtful expression. She shrugged. "That is what is commonly believed. True or not, the rumour alone holds weight."

"I would speak for him. He would speak for himself, if we're guaranteed safety."

"I cannot guarantee it, I'm afraid. The way my department looks right now, we're busy keeping the essentials working." Her deep sigh carried with it the trails of sleepless nights, as well as too much coffee and potions. "Even you would be in danger of someone under Umbridge's heel trying their luck."

"I can handle myself."

"I know you can. Which is why I even contemplate it."

"Do you have a plan?"

"The beginnings of one." Bones rubbed her eyebrows, groaning every time she reached her temples. "One condition. Dog. Bark if you agree. The name of the Black family will be restored if Sirius Black is proven innocent. I expect the family's allegiance to significantly change. Can I trust that this will happen?"

Snuffles didn't hesitate to give the Director a short, clear bark. His eyes, too intelligent for a normal dog, met Bones' and with her nod, they entered an unspoken bargain. "Good boy." she added with a smirk. "I will let you know when I have gathered mine. You may want to let the headmaster know that he ought to do the same with his. Once we are aligned, I shall call for you as a witness in this case. Sounds good?"

"Sounds simple enough to work." Harry answered. "Not that I have any experience."

"I'd say there is plenty of that surrounding you." she said, glancing at Narcissa, Moody and finally, Snuffles. "Until then, Mr. Potter. Let us be in touch. Now, leave us. I wanted to visit an old friend in hospital, when you interrupted."

He smiled at her. Narcissa had let him know what to expect. Moody had told him that it would look less suspicious; less gossip worthy, if visitors left in the same order as they arrived.

"Until then, Director." Harry made to leave, Alastor and Snuffles in tow, when Bones snatched the collar around Snuffles.

"One last thing," She produced a small notepad, a quill and with a few, well practised strokes she filled something out that looked like a form. Once finished, she stuck the slip of paper underneath the collar, and with another smirk down to Snuffles said, "That's an official warning and fine for an unregistered animagus. The fine is to be paid the next time you enter the Ministry as a human. Now, leave."

The afternoon sun let the smoke filled living room glow with a serene orange glow. The air was thick with the smell of coffee and herbal tobacco. Ardelean's collection of reports was still in the middle of it all, placed on the coffee-table. Yet, around it, a map of the Balkans and the British Isles laid spread across the room, with notes pinned to dozens of locations. Half-eaten lunch was placed on tomes and scrolls they had perused on their search for more hints and knowledge that would fill the gaps between seemingly unrelated occurrences. Tonks and Agatha themselves looked dishevelled and chaotic. Hairs in buns and braids, with chalk-stains all over their clothing, they sat in poses only comfortable after hours of sitting. They looked at their conclusion, and somehow their solve was absent of satisfaction. Both of them fell back into the cushions, glad their short peak into the Abyss was over.

"Well," Agatha sighed, taking a long drag of her fourth or fifth pipe. "That was a gruesome excursion."

"Bloody hell," Tonks threw the whittled down stick of chalk behind her back, into a pile of plates, cups, books and parchment. "I need a shower."

Before them, no longer just on the blackboard, but stretched from the window to the door to the hallway, was an intricate web of occurrences, names and relationships, hints and conjecture that built itself into a mosaic, showing them a horrible truth.

"What do you reckon he made?" Tonks lazily waved at three words dead centre within the large web.

Phylactery, Pact and Horcrux stood there in bold letters, surrounded by all sorts of notes, and with dozens of red strings leading to them. Agatha looked at "A is for Aboleth, Z is for Zombie", among the stack of books she had on the subject of immortality and necromancy. Next to it was a title she had confiscated from a cult a few years back. "Hail the Foul" described the life and work of Herpo the Foul in great detail, with some disturbing parallels to Voldemort's own deeds.

"He's too full of himself to become a Lich. Phylacteries? Nah. If I were a betting woman, I'd say he's the type to drag others with him to the abyss." Agatha levitated her own chalk to cross out "phylactery" from the board. "Or he is a pact-bonded warlock. But servitude seems even less likely for Voldemort, doesn't it?" Her chalk crossed out "Pact" as well. Her eyes wandered over to the name that started their day of good old investigator's work. "Miranovich would no doubt know about Herpo's Heresies. Maybe he was willing,... or forced to share?"

"So, he made a Horcrux? Do I even want to know the difference?" Tonks' skin tone had long changed from a healthy tan to parchment white. The abject horrors Voldemort left hints of were enough to turn even the strongest woman's stomach.

"Phylacteries aren't exclusively evil. Most are, don't make any mistake, but in rare cases you may be a revered ruler, or mage, and be, more or less, remembered into immortality. All it costs is your own soul. Now, with a Horcrux, the price paid to the forces beyond the veil doesn't come from your own soul. Another is used - horrifically murdered, endlessly tortured and then brutally twisted into a shield for your own soul. Not only does a horcrux anchor you in the mortal world, but it also removes yourself from the grasp of those eager to eternally punish you for such crimes, including protection from the repercussions of such vile acts as the murder of a unicorn. Quirrel's soul, though? Well, I hope he likes my cousins."

"So… what do we do?"

Agatha closed her eyes and sighed deeply. "Horcrux are rather obscure knowledge,"

"First time I heard of them was an hour ago." Tonks nodded. "You seem to know plenty, tough."

"Not enough. Whom would you ask about obscure magical knowledge - advanced course - within a few miles radius?"

"Ah," Tonks frowned. "So, off to Hogwarts?"

More a groan than words, Agatha answered, "Off to Hogwarts."