Agatha's expression visibly did a complete about-face. Her earlier ecstasy and greed vanished in an instant, replaced by an exceedingly friendly smile with more than a hint of flattery.
She rubbed her hands together and walked behind Hermione as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Oh, my lady Witch, look at you. You've been standing for so long. You must be tired."
Agatha carefully massaged Hermione's shoulders, applying just the right amount of pressure, as though she had rehearsed this countless times.
She had no choice. Circumstances left her no room to argue.
Even if Hermione had killed Dormammu through some clever trick, it was still a genuine achievement.
Agatha had lived for hundreds of years. What hadn't she seen?
Well, she genuinely hadn't seen anything like this.
Taking it by force was clearly out of the question. The Dark Dimension's boundless energy was still beckoning to her. If she wanted that inheritance, what did a little dignity matter?
Besides, she had done plenty of shameless things in her life. Serving a young girl who was who knew how many generations younger than her seemed... not entirely unacceptable.
At least this "Dark Witch" was much easier on the eyes than that old stick-in-the-mud, the Ancient One.
Hermione glanced at her, secretly amused.
She recalled the old witch's life: extraordinarily gifted from childhood, but ruthless and vicious.
She had defected from the Salem Coven and drained her own mother and fellow witches of their magical power. For hundreds of years, she had stopped at nothing in her pursuit of power. She really was a born villain, utterly unapologetic about it.
In her world, there seemed to be nothing but a hunger for power. She could abandon anything to grow stronger.
Yet, oddly enough, as long as that