Lunch was a quick decision made, when sun and one's own private beach invited to a barbecue all by itself. Agatha looked up from cutting vegetables and meats when Fleur came walking out the house. She wore a silken robe, that did a bad job at hiding her swimsuit on purpose. Yet, even though she dressed for a fun, summer afternoon, it was clear to anyone with eyes that she felt like a rainy, autumn, Monday morning.

"How do you like your steak?"

"Currently? Cheap."

"I have none of that. I got Hippocampus, medium rare?"

"Rare," Fleur sat down on the still rickety benches, looking towards the Black Lake. "and… Merci."

"Two kisses and some salt, comin' right up."

Fleur's eyes went wide when Agatha summoned two enormous slabs of meat from the kitchen, and slammed them onto the grill. All manners of fatty and spicy aromas began replacing the scent of flowers in the air. Listening to the sizzling sounds of meats and vegetables, Fleur didn't even notice Styx until the construct placed two glasses of wine before them.

"It's not french, just so you know." Agatha watched Fleur smell the wine, and do a double take. She took a sip, and gave it a thorough tasting, until she nodded and set the glass back down.

"Not 'orrible. Where is it from?"

"Southern Africa. It's my favourite, actually. Anyway, tell me, how did the prestigious daughter of the Delacours end up as the broke roomie of a tiefling?."

"Prestige brings one thing with it." Fleur took a deep breath, and took another sip of wine before she continued. "Expectation."

"Ah, yes. The bane of my life. How did it fuck you up?"

"Since the Triwizard I heard nothing but… well." Fleur took another pause, leaned back and stared into the clouds. "Disappointment, in any decision I made."

"That is why you're in Britain? Get out? Get away?"

"Half the reason." Fleur answered. "The other is a position at Gringotts as Charms specialist."

"Charms, huh?" Agatha flipped the steaks up in the air, and let them slam down onto the grill. "Appraisals? Or creation?"

"Either," Fleur took another sip, as if to hide behind the glass. "I just need employment."

"You know, I made a deal with these pixies from a place of mutual respect. Dink, skat! Beggars make no deals, at best they choose shackles." Agatha thought for a moment. "I'm not saying don't get the job. Just know what you want when you talk to Goblins."

"Qui," Fleur sat back in the chair, wine in hand, and looked out onto the lake. "What I want."

"Is...?"

"A secret," she smiled.

The slightest of blushes, that faint smile as Fleur thought about her unspoken longing was telling Agatha more than words could in that bit of time. Her demeanor changed for but a split-second, from wistful to fond memory.

Agatha chose to take a guess. "It's a man."

"'ow?" Fleur almost dropped her glass, fumbled with it, and as she caught it glared back at Agatha. "No?"

"So, am I right?"

"No." Fleur protested, ending in a little pout.

"Oh, I am?!" Agatha had an impish smile on her face. Focusing on the meat, she asked, "What's his name?"

"Does anyone ever lie to you?"

"Not successfully,"

Fleur sighed. "Bill. 'is name is Bill."

Agatha stopped what she was doing, and a fond smile came across her face. "Bill... Weasley?"

"You know 'im?" Fleur leaned forward.

"Yes," she answered. Her smile directed at Fleur, she gave the memories just a few moments to come back to the forefront of her mind. Little pictures of rare, happy times, long past. "He was a childhood friend of mine. Before I was sent to Africa for school. His mother babysat me, sometimes. Well, a lot of times."

"And now?"

"Now I am an Executor, and he is professionally toeing a grey area of legality. We... I guess we are... well. Hmm. I'm not entirely sure. The last time I saw him, I confiscated his loot. He was not happy about that, at least."

Fleur leaned back again, with her finger circling the glass in her hand, when she wasn't sipping in the most elegant way Agatha had seen anyone drink wine ever.

"It seems he cursed you, huh?" Agatha quipped.

"Cursed?"

"Aye. The curse of a crush? Heartbeats skipping. Butterflies in the digestive system. You know? See, what I'm saying is: you want to fuck the ginger boy."

Fleur choked on the sip of wine she had just taken, coughed and shook herself, until she could finally concentrate on glaring at Agatha. She, in turn, gave Fleur a wide grin until she returned a begrudging smile. "You are a crude woman."

"Comes with the job." Agatha flipped the steaks into the air one last time. With a little twirl of her finger, the two steaks began levitating to the plates set on the table. Two massive steaks hit the porcelain, while Styx set down fresh, baked potatoes and a variety of vegetables. Agatha swung her feet over the bench to the table, already hungering for the juicy bits of information. "So, when did you meet Bill Weasley for the first time?"

Fleur took her time eating; thinking and weighing. "You are very good with the grill." she said, turning around a perfect cut of medium rare steak.

"Thank you. Don't distract."

"We 'ave an entire afternoon. Don't hurry."

"We actually do not. I'll be visiting my students, come tea."

"Which first?"

"Guess."

"Oh. Merde." Fleur tried and failed to hide her blushing face behind her hands.

Agatha laughed. "There are still four Weasleys in Hogwarts. Of course, I start with the four for one household." she halted a bit. "It will be nice to see them again, too. It has been two years since the last time."

"Will he be there too?"

"No," Agatha sighed. "I doubt it. Even, though it would be nice to catch up."

Grimmauld Place was never not dreary. Even in the summer sun, it radiated misery. Alas, one could not put a Fidelius on just any house. The Rook was known by so many, the spell would disrupt too much, and inevitably alert the Ministry to its location. Grimmauld Place? Not so much. Forgotten and ignored as this monument to pureblood pride was, it became the perfect location to hide, and hide in. Barely a handful of people alive know of it, and not a single one misses the thought of it.

Nobody made good memories at Grimmauld Place. Everyone was better off forgetting. Perfect Fidelius material.

The squeaking floorboards greeted Agatha. The wailing of a portrait followed soon after. The loud bang of Sirius bashing doors and stomping to silence his oil-painted mother came as a close third.

"Black," she greeted.

"Forkhead," Sirius just gave a quick nod, turned the corner and started screaming at his ol' mum. "Shut your trap, you old hag! I'll sic that demon on you if you don't stop screaming at her!"

"Oookay," Agatha removed herself from the screaming match, climbed the stairs and found what she was looking for through a thick fog of dust. The Weasleys, Potter and Granger were dusting off an array of items, ranging from old gaudy trash to dark artefacts, seemingly without knowing what kind of contraband they're close to. However, at second glance, the really painful or lethal stuff had been removed already.

Busy work, then, Agatha decided. That definitely had the mark of Molly Weasley all over it. No doubt to keep all that teenage energy at bay to some degree. But what would the world be without hormones going wild from time to time? Agatha raised her hand and with but a few flicks of her fingers, the dust began to neatly fall into a heap of grey in the middle of the room.

All of them turned around as they saw their task vanish in front of them. "Professor Dumbledore!"

Agatha's right eye twitched.

"Potter, Granger, Weasleys." she nodded. "You don't mind me freeing up your afternoon, do you?"

"Not at all, Professor." Harry threw his duster into a pile of cleaning supplies.

Granger seemed uneasy, eyeing the now clean room, while the Weasleys flopped onto couches, or high-fived each other.

"This room would've taken us a week to clean, no doubt." Ron Weasley stated. "Why even do it when you can just come in and use magic?"

"Busy work," Agatha answered, all smiles. "It's your mother's method to keep you all out of trouble. But fortunately I have need for your time this afternoon, so let us adjourn to the lounge for some talks. Hmm... Granger. How about you first?"

Moments later saw Agatha and Hermione sit in the old, but still luxurious lounge of the Black residence. Leather and velvet upholstery, framed by mahagony furniture. It smelled like old cigars and whiskey, books and silverware polish. Tea was served, and promptly vanished by Agatha. She would rather go thirsty than drink whatever salted and peppered brew that hateful old houseelve served them. Fortunately, she could produce her own tea with but the simplest gesture.

"How...?" Hermione leaned forward, staring at Agatha's hand as she weaved her conjuration.

"Wandless magic is a widely used practice in Africa. Especially once you're south past the Sahara." she started explaining. "It is frustrating to learn at first, but once you get the hang of it; the muscle memory, it begins to become natural. Wand based magic is vastly more powerful, but nothing beats the subtlety of a twitching finger."

"But if wand magic is more powerful and easier, why even teach this? How come people haven't mostly adopted wands?"

"Tradition, I suppose. A wand can be taken, but a hand - a hand requires more determination to remove, and, well..." Agatha gave her a grim smile. "Removing a hand removed value, you understand?"

"I don't... oh." Something lit up in her mind. "I see. But I know the Americas use wands as well."

"Because if you can't remove the channel, you can't remove the magic. In short, witches and wizards weren't worth the hassle of keeping them docile on the ships."

Hermione leaned into the armchair, with her mind moving a mile a minute. "All african american wizards are descendants of muggleborns?"

"The vast majority." Agatha nodded. She took a sip of her tea, while her eyes were glued on the young witch in front of her. "What are you thinking about, right now?"

"Is there the same hate against muggleborns there?"

"Not the same. The Americas have their own flavors of it. More Grindelwaldian, if you will." Agatha set down her finished tea, took a ledger from the bottomless pockets of her robes and flipped open to Hermione Ganger's academic reports. "Outstanding" repeated itself over page after page. However, she was more interested in the notes added by McGonagall at the very end. "You took on a remarkable task last year."

"Harry did all the work, I just..."

"What? No. Not the tournament." Agatha took out a little badge from the ledger, spun it around her fingers, with the slightly scratched letters S.P.E.W. loudly and proudly on the front. "Freeing slaves. Extraordinary extracurricular activity, if I might say so myself."

"I failed."

"You failed at dismantling one of the most complex, obscure curses known to wizardkind in the span of one school year. Personally, I wouldn't call that a failure."

"That is what happened to them?! The elves are cursed?"

"That is the accepted theory. By whom, why or how is unknown."

"When? Do we know when they became cursed?"

"We know the first reports of houseelves came from Anisian witches in Germany, around the year 850."

"Anisian witches?"

"Anis Hags." Agatha laughed. "Which is the term that was used by disgruntled wizards who, back then, were incapable of reproducing the healing magic the anisian witches learned from the deep forest."

"But Anis Hags are actual creatures, are they not? I don't understand. Are there two groups named the same?" Hermione was edging on her seat, with her fingers playing on her skirt in lieu of a notepad.

"They both exist. The Anisian witches are a worldwide organisation of academics concerned with healing magic. Madame Pomfrey is one, for example. The Anis Hags, on the other hand, are the nightmares taken form after centuries of imagination." Agatha smiled to show her fangs, and pointed at her horns. "Magic combined with dreams; imagination makes reality. Conjure an image of horror over and over again, and eventually it will be real. The birth of demons and angels, fey and shadows, is all intertwined with dreams and nightmares. But this is where we'll stop for now, as we're about to step across the threshold to the most obscure magical lore, barely understood by even the most experienced scholars."

"But I..."

"Which doesn't mean we won't ever talk about it. I'm just on a schedule, and you're not prepared. Here," Agatha handed Hermione a small sheet of paper. "This is a list of books I want you to find and study. If you have read them all, we can talk. Eye to eye, then."

Lists of books was definitely up there with things that Hermione Granger salivated over. Her eyes flew over the many books listed, sometimes making her brows narrow in thought. "I think some of them are in Hogwarts, but where do I get the rest?"

"As I said: Find them." then she gestured to the door, at the same time opening it with a slight twist of her index finger. "Send in Potter next, will you?"

"Professor," Harry greeted. He walked over to Agatha who nursed a glass of whiskey taken from a cabinet nobody was supposed to get into. The old globe's lock was molten, with some smoke still coming from the surrounding wood. Harry came to a stop next to it, keeping a respectful distance.

"Harry," Agatha waved him over to her place next to a window. She pointed out roughly, at the park in front of the house where some teens hung out, sharing a secret cigarette behind some bushes.

"They're gonna get in trouble." he quipped, amused by the slightly younger teenagers.

"No, they won't." Agatha pointed at the kid on the right, taking a shallow puff, careful to not let the smoke into the lung. "His mother is working two jobs. He hasn't seen her for three days." she pointed to the one in the middle. "His father beats him. He wants trouble, so he can pretend he deserves it. As if his father cares." At last her finger came to the last one, the girl of the group. "She is the middle child of eight. Quiet, passive girl that she is, there are days when her parents forget that she exists. Smoking? That deserves a scolding. Maybe then they would finally take note, huh?"

"Why are you telling me this?" Harry kept staring at the teens, as if to paint their faces permanently into his mind. "How do you know this?"

"Why do you think?"

Now Harry focused on her, sighed and let his gaze fall. "I've had, well... I have to focus ahead. Voldemort is back, and I'm - I'm not focusing. I'm just whining, and I guess... I just wanted someone to notice."

"I don't show you this because I think you whine too much, or because I think you're seeking attention. Try again."

"I don't know," he began, but stopped when he felt Agatha's hand on his shoulders.

"Stop. Think. Answer. Take your time."

He took a cleansing, shaking breath and watched as the boy on the right coughed uncontrollably, and his friends laughed at his misfortune. The girl produced a bottle of water, while the other boy steadied his coughing friend.

"Well, at least they got each other, I suppose."

"Aye, they do. Bonds through mutual suffering. Love, even. Even in their unfair, dark lives, they found someone to comfort them." she turned to Harry. "That now on-the-nose enough for you?"

"Yeah," he smiled, ruefully.

"Have you told them? Of the graveyard, Cedric, Pettigrew?"

"I did,"

"Have you made a report, or have you told them?" she gave his shoulder a light squeeze, and bent down a bit more to come eye to eye with Harry. "I care little about who you see as a confidante, but choose yours, and tell them about the anger, the fear, the grief." she took a slight pause, and smiled with her fangs showing. "The rush of it all."

Harry averted his eyes, looking back out to the group sitting in the park. The cigarette was discarded, and instead they laughed at the still coughing boy while trying to fix him back up. Together on a rickety bench, their own little microcosm, their respite, surrounded by hedges, with their biggest problem being a protesting set of lungs.

"I don't want to burden them."

"They are already burdened." Agatha let her hand fall to her side, and took another sip of whiskey. "Took me quite a while to understand; to realize that I am loved, and that people care, and that those people are already burdened by my misery. It is only fair to tell them what causes it."

She could see him mull over her words. His eyes roamed the park outside, watching as some old lady fed pigeons, as two men drank beer next to the little, mouldy fountain, as a stressed looking woman waited for her dog to do it's business next to a bush.

He was shaken out of his musing by a glass sinking down into his hand. It was filled with little more than a single sip of whiskey.

"Cheers," Agatha let her glass clink against his, and sipped the rich, oaky whiskey.

"I'm not 17, yet."

"Yeah, well, Voldemort still wants to murder you. I feel like you earned to make some choices."

Harry snorted, set the glass to his lips and threw it back. His face contorted into all kinds of grimaces, before he swallowed, coughed and set the glass down with force. Another cough, before he could focus back on her. "You never said how."

"Legilimency,"

Harry looked at her, confused and still coughing.

"Mindreading," she helped.

"You read their minds?" Harry's eyes went wide, until he nodded, connecting some threads. "Do you read our minds? My mind?"

"No. Never without permission."

"But you read theirs? I assume you didn't ask them."

"Their lives are the same now as they were before. I will never talk to them, or theirs. They have neither gained nor lost anything by it. With you, on the other hand, the consequences of broken trust would echo." Agatha let her free hand sink into her pockets, where she fished for the book she had in mind for Harry. It was old, dusty and full of her own juvenile doodles.

"Control & Conquer?" he read the title.

"Father gave it to me when I was eight years old. It holds the basic methods for protecting your mind, among other things. Read it over the summer. Train a bit on your own. You will need these foundations for your extracurriculars this year."

"Those have already been chosen for me?"

"Merlin, fine, if you don't want to learn advanced combat magic from an Executor, be my guest."

Harry blushed. "No! I mean, yes! I mean I want to learn."

"There ya go, lad." she grinned. "Do me a favor and send in Ronald Weasley."

"Professor," Ron Weasley greeted as he entered. His shoulders were pulled back, and his chin up in some form of defiance.

"The last time I saw you, you weren't even a year old. Now look at you!" she stood up from the comfortable lounge chair, went over to him and laid both her hands on his shoulders like a proud momma hen.

"Uhm, uh, you know me?"

"Of course I do. Many people do, don't they?"

"Well, thats not because of me." His pose slumped, and he took a step back from her to free his shoulders.

"Aye, thats true, isn't it? Pity, really." She went back to her seat and let herself fall into the cushions, while opening Ronald Weasley's files. His grades were alright, all things considered. He wasn't the star of academia, but did what needed to be done. She threw the folder back shut, and let it drop on the floor. "However, the world would crumble without its unsung heroes. I mean, let's be honest, both of your friends wouldn't even have survived the first year without you."

"I- What?"

"The vines. The chess game? To be fair, they were only designed to slow an adult wizard down, but to first years those traps were deadly. Well done."

"I guess. It wasn't anything special."

"Just take the goddamn compliment, would you?" Agatha gestured to the chair in front of her. "Your problem isn't ambition, or skill or talent. You apply yourself when needed, and you got a decent amount of both." she said while Ron took his seat. He didn't dare lean back. He sat at the edge of his seat, ramrod straight.

"It is confidence that you lack." Agatha shrugged and threw her hands in the air. "Thats a tough one to teach."

"I don't- I have confidence, I just, I-" Ron's face became beet red, as he stuttered through his sentence.

"The epitome of self-assured, right there, no doubt." She leaned forward. "What is there that you are absolutely, undoubtedly, confident in? I know there is one thing. I want to know if you know."

"I'm-" he started, but held as he thought further. "I'm really good at chess."

"You did beat McGonagall. At eleven. That's not just a feat, Ronald. That is prodigy territory."

"It wasn't anything, I just played a basic strategy."

"With three Kings." Agatha let her head fall to one side. "So to say."

"Didn't make it easier that we had to be pieces, I suppose."

"Suppose, do ya?" Agatha leaned back, rummaged in one of her pockets and produced a little folder. "This is a shameless plug for my own organisation, but would you be interested in, hmm… how to call it? Global chess? With millions of pieces, all acting at the same time with unclear rules, and infinite possible moves?"

Ron took the folder, and read the title with golden letters. "Executor Choir of the ICW - Recruitment pamphlet." He looked up. "I'm - I'm no Executor."

"Oh no, you're not." Agatha smiled. Ron faltered a bit. "I'm seeing you more in the command centre."

When all she received as an answer was the questioning looks of Ron, Agatha elaborated. "Do you think we just roam randomly around the globe, catching criminals as we see them? No, no, no. We have an extensive intelligence department behind us. The Directorate hires strategists, tacticians and logistics officers. With work, and if you apply yourself, this could be a career choice. But if you'd rather do something else, all you will have learned is going to open up a lot of doors, no doubt."

Ron held the folder in his hands like it was the only solid object around him. Legilimancy wasn't necessary to see that his mind went a mile a minute, daydreaming, dreading, planning and panicking.

"Maybe just join Harry on his extracurriculars in Hogwarts? See where it goes?"

"Extracurriculars?" Ron's face scrunched up in disgust.

"Executor training." Agatha winked. "The Director should train close to his Executor, no?"

Ron nodded, stood up and left the room without dismissal, hurrying to somewhere.

"Hook, line and sinker." Agatha mumbled to herself.

Ginny, Fred and George came in after Ron had left. "Do you also want to speak to us, Professor?"

"I do," Agatha grinned from ear to ear. "I suppose Ronald would have forgotten to tell you."

"He's with Harry, plotting over something." Ginny took a seat right opposite to Agatha. Fred and George slumped down on a couch. "Whatever you told them sent them into one of their states."

"Their states?"

"The sort of state where those three show everyone else that inner circle they have."

"You blame me?"

"You told them whatever made them like this."

"Oh, but you see," Agatha stood up herself, towering over the Weasleys. "All I do, all I'm good at by nature, is to underline, contrast, emphasize desires, wants, longing. So many strings to pluck with any person,"

Ginny sunk back into the chair, her hands gripping and scratching the armrests, as Agatha's demonic nature made itself known by her voice, posture and shadows.

"Would you prefer your brothers leave us for this conversation?" Agatha asked. "I know what has happened to you. I am sorry you had to endure."

"I-" Ginny looked over to Fred and George who had rather untypical, serious expressions, eyeing the Professor like hawks. "Fred, George? Could you go?"

"But-" Fred started to protest.

"Ginny," George pleaded.

"It's alright." Ginny insisted. "Mum said she's part of the family, right?"

"Alright," both gave begrudging nods, stood up and made to leave the room. When their eyes met the mirror on the wall, they halted. Instead of the usual ginger red, their hair was a bright sunflower yellow. They whirled around. Fred pointed at Agatha in question.

"Let us escalate this going forward. Game on, boys." she said with a grin. "Dismissed."

Two grinning twins left the lounge in a hurry. Ginny sighed. "Now those two will also be plotting."

"And you're left alone?"

She looked up to Agatha, sad and somewhat caught. "Yea,"

"It is a horrible feeling. Terrifying. To be alone in a large world, with no one to sit down with you and just listen."

"Tell me about it,"

"Prelude, young Miss Weasley. Prelude." Agatha sat back down, and instead of a folder, she held up a diary. Ginny twitched with her entire body.

"What's the idea?" she demanded, voice shaky.

"Tom was a kind soul, wasn't he? Attentive, a good listener and sometimes he even gave great advice?"

"He made-" she swallowed. "He made me do-" She couldn't end the sentence.

"Plucked those strings, but played his own song." Agatha patted the diary in her hands. "I know a thing or two about that."

"How? How could you know?"

"Well, my mother is a powerful demon. When I was about your age, somewhere in the deep jungles of the Kongo where Uagadou had decided to be this year, she began to whisper to me. She listened. She gave advice. I almost sold her the souls of ten other students that year on her word." Agatha was now the one to take a shaking breath. She held up the diary. "This is an ordinary diary. My professor gave it to me after the… incident. It helped. Some. I was still lonely. I was still no one's favourite person."

"You're just saying that." Ginny gripped the armrests. Her expression angry, and her posture defiant. "The Legilimens at Mungos also tried to tell me some story, so I could relate to them. They only wanted easier access to my mind. You're lying."

"Am I?" Agatha held the diary out to Ginny. "Read it."

Slow and shaking, Ginny gripped the diary. She waited, lifted the cover, but let it fall again. Agatha saw a tear stream down her cheek, her shaky breath filling and emptying her lungs. Eventually, Ginny violently flipped open the diary, somewhere in the middle. Her eyes were carefully roaming across the pages, until she saw that it was truly just paper and ink.

"Read it," Agatha said again. "Aloud, if you want."

Ginny glanced to Agatha, nodded and began reading. "Dear diary, I write a bit later today. I just came from detention, and the healing wars. I don't know what I hoped to achieve. I didn't know horn had so much blood vessels in it. Filing them off is not an option, anymore."

Ginny startled, looked up to Agatha in horror and what the Executor thought was genuine grief.

"Do not worry, Ginny. The girl that wrote this diary is long gone. She found some people. She became some people's favourite person. Your mum's hugs also helped." she said, winking at the last part. "However, on some level, the girl in the diary never dies. Wounds heal. Memories do not. But they have a place, and purpose if we let them. I want to let my memories have purpose. I would like for you to keep this diary."

"I don't know if,..." Ginny's eyes fell onto the text again.

"Look on the last page."

Ginny flipped the pages until she reached on last, empty page.

"Whatever pain he has caused, Tom had some brilliant ideas. I took a page out of his book, so to say. I breathed some life into this diary."

"I can't decide if this is sick, or brilliant." Ginny laughed a tired, sad laugh.

"If you find it to turn out to be sick," Agatha shrugged. "Throw it in a toilet."

Through the dried up tears, still shaky, Ginny laughed in earnest. She held the diary close to her, stood up an made to leave However, a few steps in she turned around, almost leaped to Agatha and wrapped her in a tight, long hug. "Thanks," she breathed out.

"Never forget the lessons you have learned. But never let them darken the horizon, alright?

"Alright,"