To Know Most Truly

by Excited-Insomniac

SEQUEL TO "CHAMPION", POSTED PREVIOUSLY. Nita Linese has survived the Triwizard Tournament and graduated Hogwarts, and is now navigating life in the wider wizarding world. But evil is on the rise, and she is in its sights. What's a not-quite Muggleborn to do when she's thrust alone into the worst peril yet? COMPLETE EXCEPT FOR EPILOGUE.

11. Bound By Blood

Bound By Blood

In the small hours of the morning, the door at the end of the dungeon passage opens. The torches spring to life, and Kay and I both get to our feet, groggy from not sleeping but tense nonetheless. It's too early for breakfast, so it's... the other thing. She stares at me, transfixed with grief and pain. "I'll tell them the truth," she whispers, gripping her bars till her knuckles are white. "I'll tell whoever I can, I will—"

"Don't get yourself killed too," I whisper back. "What's the point of that? Stay safe! Get back to your family!"

Before she can argue, the Aurors reach me, three of them looking rather dull, perhaps due to the early hour, the last a black man in his thirties who looks vaguely familiar. Is he one of the ones I saw with Madam Bones a few times?

He taps my cell door open with his wand and stands aside to let me walk out. I meet Kay's anguished look one last time as the Aurors march me past. We pass through a few corridors that I'm too numb to notice, a guard stationed every so often by the walls, then into a lift and up a few levels. A touch on my shoulder almost makes me jump out of my skin. I whip my head around, swollen cheek throbbing with the movement. It's the Auror who seemed familiar. He leans towards me just as the lift doors open and says in a low voice, "You're not being Kissed." His voice is familiar too, but in a different way, a more recent way.

"You warned the wedding," I murmur, unsure if I'm more shocked or confused. "That the Aurors were coming, you warned us. But… you are one?" Speaking of Aurors, I glance at the three others still walking in front and behind us, looking more gormless than I had realised in the dungeon's inconstant light.

He shakes his head. "They're lightly Confunded. Don't have time to explain. Nearly there." I look around. We've come to a more formal section of the Ministry, sconces with lights, painted walls, occasional signs directing people towards this or that office. Specifically, offices included in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. What…? "It'll be confusing, but it's important to go along with it," he continues. "It's the best we could do. You'll be on your own, but it's better than the Kiss."

Before I can ask what the hell he's on about, we stop at a door with Head - Department of International Magical Cooperation — L. Malfoy on a large-ish plaque on the door. The Auror raps loudly, and the door opens. We step inside, into a spacious office done mostly in grays and various shades of green. Mr Malfoy, as the door had indicated, sits behind the large desk, looking tired and cross. To my surprise, Snape sits across from him, crabby and greasy as ever. "Lord Malfoy, Headmaster Snape," the Auror who whispered to me says formally. "Nita Linese, at your command."

"Ah," Mr Malfoy drawls. "Speak of a Boggart and one you shall see."

"I'm the worst thing you can think of?" I ask sarcastically. "How limited your imagination must be."

"You'll not speak to your betters in such a manner, girl," Snape says lazily.

I give him a hard look. He convinced You-Know-Who not to kill me that night, but he didn't even try to prevent him from torturing me. And now, he's, what, in cahoots with Malfoy? What's going on here? The Auror with me must belong to the Order of the Phoenix, which implies they're somehow involved in my not being Kissed, but why then just hand me over to a pack of Death Eaters? It's too much to parse right now. And if the Auror is telling the truth, and I'm not to be Kissed, then maybe I'll have time to figure it out later.

Mr Malfoy sighs dramatically and waves the Aurors out of the room. As he passes me, the Order's agent whispers, just barely loud enough to hear, "Please go along with it," before he and the rest are gone, door clicking shut behind them. I grit my teeth. Whatever this is, the Auror said it would be better than the Kiss. That leaves a lot of room for really bad things, but it hopefully won't include death, so I'll play. "Why her, again, Severus?" Mr Malfoy complains. "I doubt it will help my credibility very much to arrive to the embassies with a convicted murderer in tow."

"You're to visit many different countries in a short span of time, Lucius," Snape says coolly. "Do you want the nuisance of engaging new translators in every place? If Flitwick and the Euro-Glyph people haven't lied, she'll pick up each new language remarkably quickly, if she doesn't know it already." He gives me a dry glance. "And she did do something very strange to that dragon during the Tournament."

"And my safety?" Lucius blusters. "She murdered the Minister!" He grabs a newspaper up from his desk and shoves it at Snape. The front page is nearly covered in a huge photo of me in my cage at the trial yesterday. I blink. Whatever that witch did with that makeup, I look about ten years older than I am, and five times as bloodthirsty. The photo was taken just as I was shouting something and pulling at my chains, and I look savage and wild. A queer glow of pride suffuses me. Maybe I could be someone's worst nightmare, if all they knew of me was this. The bold capital letters above the photo scream, MUDBLOOD MURDERS MINISTER! LINESE TO BE KISSED! I'm too far off to see who wrote it, but it smells like Skeeter. "Why is she not simply being disposed of?" Lucius demands.

"Because she can still be of use to us," Snape retorts, sounding impatient, as though Lucius were an unusually dense Potions student. "She killed Barty by fluke. The trial was a farce, you know that, designed to appease the rabble and give us a Mudblood to make the villainous face of the enemy. But why throw a cauldron away just because it burns you when it's hot? You can still use it to brew." I scowl at him. "As for your safety, she has no wand anymore. Do you truly believe you and Draco would be unable to resist her if she made an attempt to grab yours?" His scorn is withering. "Besides, you can have the binding say whatever you want."

Mr Malfoy seems to have no retort to that. I'm dying to interject a question: if I've caught all these pieces right, Mr Malfoy is going abroad and needs a translator, so I've been spared the Kiss because they want to use my language ability for their own ends. My question is, for how long? But I can tell it will be best to not draw attention to myself. If we're to travel, there will inevitably be chances of escape. But he mentioned a binding…?

As though prompted by my thoughts, Mr Malfoy sighs less theatrically and pulls out a sheet of parchment. "You." He makes a sharp gesture meant to bring me over to the desk. I do as I am bid, feeling sweat prickle my back. "You've been under bindings before, yes? We have records of your work for Madam Bones."

"Yes," I say stiffly.

"Good." He opens a compartment in the top of the desk and removes two quills, one a plain Dicta-Quill, the other long, thin, black, and malignant. He places the Dicta-Quill upright at the top corner of the parchment. "Commence." The Dicta-Quill quivers and he lets it stand on its own. "I—" He looks pointedly at me.

"Nita Linese," I say, stomach cramping nervously. What am I agreeing to? Madam Bones and Mrs Haslet always explained their intentions beforehand. And what level of binding is this?

"—do hereby swear and avow to obey the Malfoys in all they explicitly and implicitly command. I will not hinder their intentions or goals through action or inaction. I will not hurt the Malfoys in any way. I will not try and escape. Cease." The Dicta-Quill lays itself down.

"Wait, you didn't say for how long," I protest. "Is this forever? Until you've settled your goals? A certain number of years?"

"Sign," is all he says, rotating the parchment so it faces me and holding out the malignant black quill.

"But what level of binding is this?" I insist. "I don't react well to the charm that makes you cry."

"Sign," he repeats.

"But it's so vague! What is an implicit command? How could I hinder a goal through inaction? And who counts as a Malfoy?"

"Anyone who bears the name, you fool!" he flares with sudden impatience. "Now sign! It's not too late to send you to the Dementors!"

I grit my teeth—a painful mistake: my swollen cheek and the spot where my tooth is missing throb angrily. Slowly, I reach for the malignant quill. "Ink?" I ask shortly.

"No need."

Sceptically, I start to write. At first I don't connect the sudden pain in my hand to the quill. But as I glance at it with a confused grimace and see 'N-i-t' with the beginning of an 'a' in weeping red lines, I realise that the pen must somehow be doing it. And the ink is shining red, red as….

It is a blood binding.

I freeze.

"Is there a problem?" Mr Malfoy asks coolly.

"Is it…" I swallow thickly. "Is it legal to have me use this without warning me?"

"Does the law apply to you anymore?" he returns, deadpan.

That seems to be all the answer I'll get.

The vivid red letters have healed as we talked, leaving the skin on the back of my hand only a bit red and tender. I finish writing my name, each letter carved with painful exactness into my skin. After I'm done, Snape and Mr Malfoy both sign underneath with normal quills, as witnesses.

"Now then," Mr Malfoy says to me just as the last letter in my hand finishes healing. "Sit down."

I'd like to tell him where he can sit down, but before I can, I feel a sort of pressure begin to build in my chest, like an invisible vise is slowly being tightened around me. Confused and concerned, I forget to tell Mr Malfoy off as the pain quickly grows from pressure to real pain, and changes to feel as though someone is sticking a knife between my ribs, straight into my heart. I gasp and falter to my knees. The pain eases significantly, and I realize that it is borne of resistance to his order. Furious and sickened, I sit completely, and the relief is almost as intense as the pain had been.

Mr Malfoy's face is hidden behind the desk from this angle, but I can hear his smug pleasure as he says, "Stand up," and it makes me want to smack him. I decide I'll resist, but practically as I'm making that choice, the pain begins to build again, and forces me to my feet. Mr Malfoy smirks at me as I come back in view, and I stare back in revulsion.

"Fetch Draco, would you," Mr Malfoy says to Snape, not seeming to mind my furious regard. "And is there anything to be done for her face? It will hardly help matters if it appears we beat our underlings."

"Nothing worse than the truth, is there?" I spit.

Quicker than blinking, Snape draws his wand and zaps me with some sort of spell. For a horrifying moment, it feels like my face is being sucked off my skull, but then it's over and my cheek doesn't hurt anymore. I explore it with gentle fingers and find it back to its normal shape. And my tooth has regrown as well.

Snape leaves, and I spend a solid three minutes staring daggers at Mr Malfoy. Then, Draco Malfoy comes in, unaccompanied. Snape seems to think we're no longer worth his time, now that I'm safely indentured to his Death Eater friends.

Draco sees me and stops dead in the doorway. "You're—" he falters.

"It's quite alright, Draco, we're in no danger," Mr Malfoy tells him, standing from the desk. He sounds calm and commanding, as though he weren't whining to Snape about his safety not twenty minutes ago. "She's taken an obedience oath. Go on, tell her to do something."

Draco looks uncomfortably between me and his father once or twice, then sets his jaw. "Walk over there," he says, pointing to a spot by a pair of chairs with a small table between them. As when Mr Malfoy gave me an order, the vise around my chest tightens the longer I resist, until I'm sweating with the pain and walk as he told me to just to get free of it. I glare at Draco the whole time, and perhaps to his credit, he seems discomfited by his control over me rather than pleased. But it would be a very small credit.

"But Father, why is she here?" he asks, keeping a wary eye on me.

"We're traveling all over the Continent, Draco. Isn't it better to have a translator who can handle all of those languages rather than engaging new ones every country or two?"

I snort. "Think of that yourself, did you?"

Mr Malfoy turns to me, eyes dark with warning. "I would use better caution in speaking if I were you, Linese. You may make my tasks easier, but you are not indispensable. I am under no obligation to you, remember."

I purse my lips. He takes this as enough of a sign of obedience that he turns back to his son. "Our family's stature is once more secure, Draco. Rather than send you to sit useless examinations for months on end at Hogwarts, your education for your career will begin now. I don't expect to stay in the Department of International Magical Cooperation forever, and you shall hopefully never inhabit such a low office, but the connections that can be built from here may be invaluable. This is the purpose of you joining me: to prepare you for your future."

Draco, still frowning, nods. I watch the pair of them carefully. Is Mr Malfoy being sincere? Is this really how parents talk to their children? When they've actually had them because they want them and everything? It makes me uncomfortable. The closest I've come to such a conversation is McGonagall telling me about the Euro-Glyph School, and even that felt like a lot.

Mr Malfoy checks his pocketwatch and picks up a small crystal paperweight from his desk and holds it out in his palm. "Touch this," he says. The pain doesn't begin, so apparently the binding thinks that's not directed specifically at me.

I take the opportunity, small as it is. "Why?"

Draco, who has already gone nearer his father, hesitates and glances between us. Mr Malfoy scowls. "Touch the paperweight, Linese." Of course the binding recognizes that. Not a lot of room for interpretation there.

The three of us stand around the paperweight as though waiting for it to impart some deep secret of the universe. I touch it with the barest tip of my finger, following orders and resenting it deeply. Better than the Kiss, the Auror had promised, but had he known I would just be trading one form of imprisonment for another? And now I'm a prisoner of my own body, not even free to move how I want.

Mr Malfoy keeps his eye on the pocketwatch until suddenly clicking it shut and murmuring, "Four, three, two, one—"

A twist and a yank of something behind my navel, a horrible feeling of being pulled in all directions, a swirl of colours and noise… We land moments later in a small but lavish room, all gilt and mirrors and plush carpet. I'm especially glad of the carpet because I lose my balance immediately and careen over backwards, landing hard on the floor.

"You could have warned me it was a Portkey!" I shout.

"What else would it have been?" Mr Malfoy demands. "Stand up." I do.

"I don't know," I retort hotly. "You gave me a quill that turned out to be a knife in disguise, so what am I to think of a paperweight?"

Draco looks confusedly between us, but before anyone can say anything further, there comes a knock at the door and it opens. A smartly dressed man steps inside, with black hair slicked back over his head and a little moustache grimly clinging to his lip.

'Ola e bem-vido,' he says, and my brain kicks into action. It's similar to Spanish, but not enough to be a local dialect.

'Português?' I ask quickly.

'Yes, miss,' he replies in that language. 'You are the translator? We were told to expect your party would have one.'

'Yes I am, but I'm not—'

"Stop," Mr Malfoy interrupts sharply. My tongue stills like a dead thing in my mouth. "You are to translate very accurately and very literally only what I tell you to. You are not to say your name, nor anything about the nature of your service to me to anyone. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I hiss, hating him.

"Good. Tell me what he said."

I recite the short phrases back in English, being very literal and unpoetic. He nods irritable acknowledgement. "Tell him we'll want to be shown to our rooms at once. And to send breakfast." I do as I'm told, and the man bows and ushers the three of us out of the lavish room. The corridor outside is lined on one side with heavy wood doors, but the other side is a long row of arched windows.

I try not to show how breathtaking I find the view. Crystal blue ocean stretches as far as the eye can see under a brilliant morning sun. It's like something on a postcard. Is this a real place, where real people live? Who knew Portugal was so gorgeous?

The concierge guides us along the corridor for some distance, then up a spiraling staircase and along to another heavy door, which opens into a huge suite, with the same view as before. The man bows and says he'll have breakfast sent to at once but if we needed anything else, we should ring the little silver bell that sits in an alcove near by the door. I repeat all this as stiltedly as possible to the Malfoys, and Mr Malfoy nods to dismiss the concierge.

There is a moment of very charged silence. "Well," I say overly brightly. "This is fun! What shall we do first?"

"Quiet," Mr Malfoy snaps, striding across the room to one of the doors. It opens onto a palatial bedroom. "The other room will be yours," he says, facing us again.

Draco and I look at each other. "Whose?" he asks his father.

Mr Malfoy spares him a cool glance. "Both of yours. You think it wise to give the Mudblood too much time alone to scheme?"

"What can I scheme against a blood binding you already forced on me?" I demand at a volume slightly above a whisper. He'd ordered me quiet, after all, so quiet I must be.

"Forced?" Draco repeats, sounding shocked. "A blood binding?" Mr Malfoy looks like he's about to intervene when a knock sounds at the door and a veritable parade of tiny figures with big ears dressed in neat kerchief-togas come in, bearing plates of breakfast foods. House elves, they must be. I've never seen one before, but what else can they be? Anyway, the food smells heavenly and my mouth waters despite myself. A week of prison food and fear have left me famished. A human attendant comes in at the end and directs the arrangement of the plates on a table by the windows, and Mr Malfoy has some words with him. He bows quickly and goes out. Moments later, as I'm making for the breakfast spread, a woman comes in and practically drags me behind a folding screen and starts taking my measurements. "Tell her you need a variety," Mr Malfoy calls, and my mouth is repeating it in Portuguese before I even register what he's said. "Formalwear, but nothing that will draw attention. Demure. Tell her." I do, and she nods, muttering to a Dicta-Quill that hovers with a pad of paper at her shoulder.

'Can they have high necks?' I ask her quietly, but Mr Malfoy hears, and barks, "Nothing I don't tell you to say!"

I scowl in the direction of his voice, but the woman nods to me, and I subside.

Shortly thereafter, she runs a thorough cleaning charm over me and the shapeless black dress I still wear and releases me back into the Malfoys' tender clutches for breakfast. I'm terrifically hungry now, and pile my plate with eggs and pastries and fruit. Draco and Mr Malfoy both give me pointed looks of well-bred disdain, and only my own pride keeps me from chewing with my mouth open to disgust them further.

"Are Mudbloods not given lessons in manners?" Draco asks snidely.

I've just stuffed some delicious cakey bread thing that tastes like lemons into my mouth, but I laugh anyway. "Not when they're poor."

That doesn't seem to be the response he expects, and he doesn't venture anything further. Instead, Mr Malfoy takes up the conversational baton. "It is time to explain exactly what you'll be doing for us, Mudblood."

"Are you going to tell me how to translate things? Because I already know how to do that."

His lips press flat with displeasure. "Your skill as a translator was the only reason you were spared from your sentence. But do not think there is no threshold beyond which you are more trouble than you are worth." His grey eyes are hard with dislike. "Remember that as you learn to moderate your attitude."

I lift my chin at him, denying him the satisfaction of showing how much he's unnerved me. Where is the line? I'm well aware of how narrowly I escaped death and I don't want to risk it again, but nor can I serve him with uncomplaining obedience.

He raises his eyebrow at my mute rebellion, but says nothing more about it. "As I said in London, your skill as a translator is the main capacity in which you will serve. We are to meet with government officials of various European Ministries to explain to them the… transition of power which will be taking place in England very shortly. Our goal is to maintain positive relations with our neighbors here across the Channel." He says this with a heavy whiff of a British superiority complex, and I roll my eyes. Fortunately, he's not looking at me. "You are both tool and liability."

"And cauldron," I murmur, thinking sourly of Snape's comparison.

Mr Malfoy gives me a hard look and I clam up. "I told you before that you are not to tell anyone your name. The words Nita Linese must not pass your lips for the duration of our journey." The injunction settles heavily on me.

"What am I supposed to say if someone asks my name?"

His lip curls. "I doubt anyone will care."

Fine then.

"You are to translate clearly and accurately for us, to and from any language the other party speaks. You are not to obscure my meaning to them or theirs to me. You are not to interfere in the intentions of my conversations. You are not to imply, or confirm if asked, that you are with us unwillingly. You are to uphold the Malfoys' good reputation to the best of your abilities, however meagre. And you are to speak to no one except myself or Draco without my explicit permission. Am I clear?"

"Physically, no. Philosophically, abhorrent, but comprehensible."

He snarls. "Pick up that knife." Of course, I do, my stomach plunging wildly. It's a small paring knife, Draco had used it to cut an apple, but it's more than enough to do serious damage if mishandled. "Put the tip to your other palm." I do, sweat breaking out on my back and forehead. I stare at him, wide-eyed. He stares back. My hand feels unreal, like it's not really connected to me at all. I'm going to wish that were true if he does what I think he means to. "Do I tell you to press it in?" he asks softly.

The silence that follows is thick and choking.

"Don't think I will hesitate, Linese. I've done worse to Mudbloods for far less provocation. Drop the knife."

I do, and it clatters onto my plate with the crumbs of my breakfast.

The meal is effectively over after that. The witch who took my measurements comes back twenty minutes later with several house elves, toting armfuls of clothing for me. She takes me back behind the screen and has me try it all on, which means the second strange witch in as many days sees my burn scar. Only this one actually seems concerned. She casts what seems to be a sort of privacy charm around us and asks, 'Did one of them do this to you?' in Portuguese.

Slowly, I shake my head, and am relieved to be able to. Mr Malfoy told me I wasn't allowed to speak to anyone else without his permission, and the binding is taking that literally: I can still communicate with other people so long as I do it silently. I can't help but feel smug about that, but where does it really get me? I don't know any kind of sign language, and I have no quill or parchment with which to write a message. I'm still stuck.

The clothes are all quite nice, at least. Mostly dresses, mostly dark colours, all with high necks and mostly with long sleeves. They're an improvement over the black dress, which a house elf takes away somewhere, but still not really the sort of thing I would wear, given my druthers. But it may be a long while before I have any of those again, so I focus on being grateful for what I do have. Free clothes are never out of style, after all. Though I refuse to be grateful to the Malfoys for them.

An hour after that, two new men come to the door and explain, through me, that they will take us by Apparation to their Ministério da magia, where we will meet Senhor Diniz, their Minister. Apparation doesn't feel any different in Portugal than it does at home, and I feel a bit silly for wondering if it would, but then we're at the Portuguese Ministry and I have to focus.

Mr Malfoy gave some very specific instructions, which I have no choice but to follow. The hardest bit to get around would be not 'interfering with the intention of the conversation'. That, and upholding their good reputation, but surely there are ways around that. Can I uphold something that didn't yet exist? And what if someone already has a bad impression of them, what then? The most vital thing will be not to let Mr Malfoy know how many gaps he's left for me. And if disobeying an order is anything like resisting one, I must be exactingly careful not to do that as well.

Senhor Diniz is a tall, thin man with thinning white hair and a sharp eye. "Mis-ter Mal-foy," he says in accented English. I file that away: anyone here might actually speak English without my knowing it, like my first meeting with Herr Heeren. Or even like Mr Becker at our meeting at Gringotts. I can't allow myself to be caught like I caught him. I will have to be extremely careful in how I influence my translation. Plausible deniability is a must. But then Senhor Diniz switches to his own language and my brain snaps into alignment.

'Welcome to our beautiful country. We trust your accommodations are to your liking, but do not hesitate to tell us otherwise. We look forward to conversing with you today.' It's a strange dual struggle: on the one hand, part of me wants to go fully literal in my translation just to annoy Mr Malfoy, but on the other hand, I don't want to be labeled as a bad translator by any English-speaking Portuguese. On top of all that, a word-for-word translation would actually be harder to do because of how my ability works. If anyone uses any idioms or figures of speech though, I'll have my chance and my plausible deniability. 'This must be your son! And you are lucky to have a daughter so skilled in our language!'

Mr Malfoy's apoplectic face almost makes the thing he did with the knife earlier worth it. But still, my disgust is just as real as his when I relay his denial.

'Ah, my apologies. What is your name then, Miss?'

I turn to Mr Malfoy, radiating smugness. "He wants to know who I am."

He scoffs. "Lie, then."

I consider this enormous opportunity with awe and glee. Any number of things could be a lie. I could say I'm a Dumbledore, or a Bagman, or a Bigby. But I'm sick of names and all their baggage. I don't want to claim another one.

I turn my brightest smile on Senhor Diniz. 'I am known professionally as the Babel Witch.' A lie, certainly, so I've followed orders, but I'm equally free of a name that might link me to some fraught history I want no part of. Senhor Diniz accepts this with a smile and curiously raised eyebrows.

"What did you tell him?" Mr Malfoy demands, seeming to realise how open-ended his command had been.

I repeat myself in English, and he scowls. "You were wise not to give a name they might know."

"I don't want any of those names," I retort. From the corner of my eye, I see Draco blink at me in confusion.

We move on to refreshments from there, and I'm glad to have eaten so much breakfast because I'm too busy translating to get any for myself. But then the real reason for our visit begins.

Senhor Diniz takes us up to his office, which has a similar view to the one at our hotel, only from a greater distance, so the glittering blue sea is like a line of sapphires on the horizon. 'Well, Senhor Malfoy, I am glad you are here. My colleagues and constituents will be glad of some clarity on the Britain situation. The news from your country these last few years has been… unsettling,' Senhor Diniz says, and I repeat to the Malfoys, substituting Diniz's 'unsettling' with 'alarming'. My binding doesn't consider that too flagrant, fortunately. I want Mr Malfoy on the defensive.

"I'm sure a great deal of that had been blown out of proportion by rumor and hearsay," Mr Malfoy says. In English it's perfectly sensible, and I make the Portuguese sensible too, but 'blown out of proportion' doesn't make the same kind of sense when translated literally and sounds a lot more violent. Mr Malfoy, unaware, goes on. "Did you have specific questions I might answer for you? There are particular matters I mean to speak of, but they may wait."

'First, of course, I offer my condolences for the untimely death of your Mr Crouch. I knew him when he held your position. He was a good man.'

Mr Malfoy shifts slightly when he hears Mr Crouch's name, but doesn't go so far as to glance at me. Draco is not so well trained yet, however.

"Thank you," Mr Malfoy says graciously. But fortunately for me, those two words alone are quite terse in Portuguese, so Mr Malfoy doesn't need my help to sound churlish there.

A beat passes as Diniz waits for elaboration, which doesn't come. Then, clearly a seasoned politician, he moves on. 'We are primarily concerned with reports of your government's treatment of Muggleborns,' Diniz says, which I turn into a very pointed question in English.

"There has been no abuse of Mud-ggleborns," Mr Malfoy replies, and I joyfully relay that as 'dirty Muggleborns' because that is the most literal translation of what he said, after all. I'm following instructions. But it is not in keeping with the spirit of his intention, and a slow squeeze of pressure forms around my chest. I bite my lip to hide my dismay, and my relief as it slowly eases. A warning shot then. Meanwhile, Diniz's nostrils flare in what I hope is shock. "Our government has responded to shocking actions taken by a group known to represent Muggleborns and their interests," Mr Malfoy goes on, "and all of our response has focused on them, or been proportional to the actions taken against us." There's not much I can do to that, despite that it's a heaping pile of lies, so Diniz gets a real translation of it.

He rests his elbows on the arms of his chair and steeples his fingers. 'And the issue of several French citizens being injured by your Ministry recently?'

I relay this with keen curiosity: could he mean Fleur and Bill's wedding?

Mr Malfoy tips his head in a fine mimic of humility. "Most regrettable. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and we certainly meant no insult to them or their country. We offered each of them treatment at our best hospital, and several accepted."

'I see. And the other? The young woman who killed your Minister?'

I keep my face perfectly neutral, but my eyes are locked on Mr Malfoy as he answers.

"Yes, Linese. Another Muggleborn. You will have surely seen the report of her trial. Her sentence was carried out this morning."

My binding forbids me from turning that into 'my sentence' but that's probably for the best. What would happen next, after all?

'Yes, Dementors… An aspect of your criminal justice system I always found barbaric, if I may say so. I hope that the practice will soon be abolished.'

Mr Malfoy inclines his head noncommittally.

Diniz drums his fingers together and finally nods. 'I have other concerns, but we can discuss them by and by. For now, it would please me to hear the matters you wished to bring to me.'

"Simply the assurance of continuing goodwill from my country to yours," Mr Malfoy explains. I listen with keen suspicion and repeat his words to Senhor Diniz with the greatest reluctance. "With the ongoing upheaval to which you have referred—two Ministers killed in as many years, a society in disarray as it is forced to reexamine its values and way of life—it would be easy indeed to forget that any nation outside of our own exists. I am here to tell you that that is not the case. It is our intention to maintain felicitous relations between our governments, and I am empowered to make such an agreement official, should you so desire."

'And who do you make this agreement on behalf of?' Diniz asks lightly. 'What is your order of success now? With Mr Crouch dead, who is to be your Minister?'

"Due to the recent events just mentioned, the position of Minister for Magic is in revision," Mr Malfoy says, a smooth non-answer which I emphasize. "The Wizengamot is in talks even now, and I expect they will select a man of stature in our community, who stands for the ideals our society is returning to."

'I see.' Diniz sounds at least as unimpressed as I feel. Does he mean You-Know-Who? Do they think they've successfully reformed society enough that he can step into public office without anyone protesting? The thought is like ice.

The rest of the meeting is largely reassurances of Britain's stability from Mr Malfoy, and platitudes from Diniz. Lunch is brought to us, though again I am too busy translating to eat much, and conversation moves to non-political topics, all of which I colour as gently but thoroughly as possible. Whenever Mr Malfoy says "my heir" (which is often, he seems to like talking about Draco) I turn it into "my child" (though it does go against his intention slightly and I experience repeated surges of pressure and pain, though none bad enough to make me stop) and so on. Senhor Diniz speaks warmly of his family as well, which consists of his wife, two daughters, and five grandchildren, and I don't tamper with any of that. They discuss the differences between the British and Portuguese Ministries, what Departments they have and so on, which is all rather boring. My throat is sore and dry by the time they wrap up in the middle of the afternoon, and Senhor Diniz gives us all his salutations. "...and thank you for your services today, Miss Babel Witch. You have been most impressive.' I give my best curtsy (which is not very good, but as soon as I stopped talking, my throat felt like it was on fire, so I can't say anything to thank him, even though my ego is grateful) and take the arm of the attendant who is waiting to Apparate us back to our hotel. If anything, the afternoon light makes the view of the sea even more beautiful than it was this morning, and in a few hours I'm sure we'll be in for a stunning sunset.

And even better, Mr Malfoy shuts himself in his room so I don't have to deal with him! I pour myself some lemon water from a pitcher on the table and do my best to nurse my throat back to health. I'm staring out over the view, trying not to think about how Viktor and Bigby and everyone think I'm dead right now, when Draco, whom I'd forgotten about, asks, "And what do you think you're doing?"

I sigh. "Standing here admiring the ocean. What does it look like I'm doing?" My voice is rough and raw, and talking hurts.

"You could be scheming ways to escape, like Father says." He sounds querulous and petty.

I roll my eyes and turn around. He's standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed."If you know of a way to get around a blood binding that specifically says you shall not try and escape, I would love to hear it, because I don't know of one."

The haughty look he seems to have copied from his dad falters slightly. "That blood binding… you weren't really forced. You couldn't have been. It's illegal for humans. It puts you on the level of a house elf or something."

"Does the law apply to me anymore?" I repeat his father's question, curious what he'll say.

He hesitates, seeming, for a moment, nothing more than a teenage boy who's out of his depth. But then he draws his dignity around himself again and sneers. "Leave it to a Mudblood to come up with such a sophistic loophole."

"I didn't come up with it, but whatever."

He frowns, again nonplussed. "Doesn't it bother you to be called a Mudblood?" he asks.

"I reckon first I would have to care about what you think. Or care about my blood. Either way, no, it doesn't bother me when you call me a Mudblood."

His frown is downright bewildered now. "All the other ones hate it."

"Other ones like who?" I ask archly.

"Like Granger, and the Creeveys, and… mainly Granger."

"Harry Potter's friend?" I can't remember if I ever knew she was Muggleborn. "Isn't she supposed to be really smart?" And hadn't there been something about house elves…? I vaguely remember her offering me a badge of some sort for her organization.

Draco scowls. "That doesn't matter. She's a Mudblood. Her family are all Muggles, like yours."

"Ooh, I hope not. The Muggles in my family are rubbish. But then, so are the wizards."

"What?" His look of affront is nearly comical. "You haven't got any wizards in your family!"

"Does believing that make it easier to see your father make me almost stab myself?" I snarl, patience breaking all at once. "Why do you care who my parents are? Why does anyone care who my parents are? You want the truth about my blood? Well? All you have to do is tell me. Go on, Draco, you pureblood, useless prat, say it! Order me to tell you who my parents are!"

He backs away from me, eyes wide. "No!" he exclaims, then presses his lips together as though he hadn't meant to say that.

"Why?" I demand, stalking closer to him. He's taller than me, significantly so, but I'm still the predator here. "What are you afraid of? Might find out something you don't like? Might have to face the fact that Muggleborns are actually totally indistinguishable from other wizards unless someone tells you? Get this: people lie! Especially when it serves their own purposes! So don't worry about the girl you forced into a blood binding after she was sentenced to something worse than death for killing a man in self-defence, all so that you can use her abilities to further the regime that wrecked her life in the first place: she doesn't matter, she's just a Mudblood. Care to guess who benefits there?"

"Well, but…" His eyes flicker nervously to his father's closed door. Seeing it isn't going to move, he sets his jaw and faces me again. "That's why you're lying to me now, to serve your own purpose. You're trying to win my sympathy so that I won't be vigilant when you try to escape."

I can't help but sneer. "Your sympathy is the last thing on my mind. And like I said: if you want to know the truth, you know how to get it." I let the challenge hang, and when he doesn't take it, I turn and walk back to the window. My throat hurts worse now.

The room we share has two beds in it, thank god, or I would have slept on the floor. I still throw all the pillows off the bed, to Draco's bemusement, but I've taken to ignoring his little huffs and scoffs. He's not a worse roommate than Rosemary and her clique used to be, so far at least. It still takes me a while to fall asleep though.

I'm standing outside in the darkest part of the night. -Are you ready?- Viktor asks, putting his hand on my shoulder. -Yes,- I say, though I don't know what he's talking about. But then, inexorably and against my will, I draw my wand and blast a jet of green light at him. It strikes him in the chest and he falls bonelessly to the grass, staring blindly upwards, and I scream…

Draco pokes my arm. "Wake up." Of course I have to, and I wrench away from him, gasping and shuddering and looking around wildly for Viktor. Draco holds his hands up at shoulder height, looking startled. "You were moaning," he says accusingly.

"I was dreaming," I gasp. Then, again, as the fact of it settles in, "I was dreaming." But still… "I hurt… I think I k—" But then I remember where I am and who I'm with and shut myself up.

"Who did you hurt?" Draco asks suspiciously.

"Are you going to make me tell you?" I snap, climbing out of my bed and stalking to the attached lavatory. When his only answer is a scowl, I slam the door and take a long shower and hope it covers the sound of my crying.

That afternoon, a pair of hotel attendants appear and say they're there to Apparate us to our next event, which I translate as 'fete' because I think that makes it sound stupid, even though 'reception' would be more accurate. But this explains why Mr Malfoy had me and Draco dress formally, because he didn't explain when I asked, and Draco didn't ask at all.

When I recover from the Apparation, I look around and find we've come out in a huge formal garden, bathed in gorgeous afternoon light. Perhaps fifty people of various ages mingle between the low hedges and flowering bushes and fountains and plates of canapes and drinks that float around. Mr Malfoy grips my arm as the attendants Disapparate and a few curious heads turn to investigate the noise. "Remember your status here, girl," Mr Malfoy says, shaking me slightly. "Uphold the reputations of my family and the Ministry. Tell no one your name or your role here. Speak only when translating for me."

"I get it," I retort, wrenching my arm. His grip only tightens and I grimace at the bruise I'll have later. "I'm to be heard and not seen."

He regards me with loathing for a moment, but then some of the fancy people have made their way over to us and the whole cumbersome business of translating all the greetings begins.

The conversation that develops is not a comfortable one for me. It takes approximately two and a half minutes for me to realise that these people are all the Portuguese equivalent of the Malfoys, all the hoity-toity purebloods who would have been in Slytherin and made my life hell. The sort who nod sagely when someone brings up the new initiative at Durmstrang to require applicants to submit proof of magical heritage similar to the Old Guard's model. The sort who titter at the idea of the Mudblood who murdered the British Minister getting Kissed by a Dementor. I keep my face blank and stoney, translating in short, ungraceful phrases, not even trying to obscure what anyone is saying. If anything, I emphasize some of the cruller, nastier things, testing the waters to see how awful these people really are. Pretty awful, seems to be the answer.

Some few among them speak enough English to converse with Mr Malfoy without my help, and I'm eventually sent—to my very great relief—to stand by myself at the edge of the garden. I snag a glass of some sort of fruit juice from a tray that floats past and try to distract myself by imagining what it would be like to come to such a beautiful place voluntarily. I would be here with Viktor, who wouldn't think I was dead, and we'd hex all these stuffy, ridiculous purebloods till they all cried pax and gave up their bigotry, and then we'd have a picnic and throw Mr Malfoy and Draco into the sea.

'You look lonely, Miss,' someone says, and I snap back to reality, realising I've got a dreamy smile on my face and no idea who I'm looking at. A man, perhaps twenty-five, with dark hair and a wry sort of smile. 'Are we so dull?' he asks.

I blink and draw breath to answer before remembering Mr Malfoy's command to not speak to anyone without permission. "Uh…" I look around for either of my captors. Mr Malfoy is halfway across the garden in a knot of Portuguese purebloods, but Draco is fairly nearby, standing alone and looking grumpy. "Oi!" I call to him. He looks up and scowls. "Can I tell this bloke I'm not supposed to talk unless I'm translating?"

He shrugs. "Fine, I don't care."

That seems to be the best I'll get from him, but it is technically permission, so I turn back to the Portuguese man, who's now looking at me rather quizzically. 'Sorry,' I say. 'I'm under strict instructions.' A sharp pain lodges in my left side, high up, almost in my armpit. 'I'm not supposed to talk unless—' The pain twinges harder, deeper, a twisting vicious pinch that makes me gasp and raise a hand to my chest. My heart thuds unevenly and my vision greys….

I don't think it's been very long when I wake up. I'm still in the garden, and the man I'd been speaking to is leaning over me, looking alarmed. Draco is next to him, even paler than usual, and there are questions called in Portuguese that my head is pounding too hard to understand. Then Mr Malfoy is there, his face dark with fury. "I gave you your orders," he hisses as the Portuguese man helps me sit up and hands me a goblet of water. "Are you really too stupid to follow such simple instructions?"

"I got permission," I say muzzily. "Draco said I could explain to him why I wasn't talking." I tip my head at the Portuguese man, but that makes the world spin crazily and I gasp, putting a hand against my eyes.

"You spoke to him?" Mr Malfoy asks furiously. "Tell me exactly what you said."

The binding forces me to answer at once, even though my chest is still throbbing and I'm not certain which way gravity is going. "Sorry-I'm-under-strict-instructions-I'm-not-supposed-to-talk-unless, and then your bloody binding gave me a heart attack and knocked me out." And if this is what happens when I'm actively disobedient, I never want to do it again.

He looks only slightly mollified, but turns his attention to Draco, who's backed off a step or two. Lots of the Portuguese purebloods are gathered in a ring a metre or so further away, whispering and looking largely delighted. I'll surely be the subject of much gossip for a while, but I can't imagine why I would care. Mr Malfoy speaks to Draco in a low voice. I don't bother trying to listen, focusing instead on drinking water that the Portuguese man gave me. 'Are you alright?' he asks in a low voice.

Reluctant to look ungrateful after he helped take care of me, I slowly nod, even though my head is still pounding. I tap the left side of my chest, hoping to imply some sort of medical condition in my heart or something without having to speak and trigger the binding again. He nods as though he understands, though he still looks concerned. Mr Malfoy returns then, saying that Draco is to take me back to the hotel and that we are to stay there until he returns later on. "I'll tell them you have fainting spells or something," he complains.

I bite my tongue against saying I haven't got any kind of spells since Umbridge broke my wand. I've gotten myself in enough trouble so far today.

Apparating is even rougher than usual, and it's a very close thing that I don't vomit when we land with a thump in the main room of the suite. "Great," Draco snaps, shaking my hand off his arm and stalking across the room to throw himself onto a sofa. "Wonderful. Perfect. Now I'm in trouble with Father. Thanks a lot."

Still gritting my teeth against nausea, I grate out, "Tell him he can hex me rather than you when he comes back then. He already wants to."

Draco gapes at me. "Hex? What in Merlin's name are you saying? Father wouldn't hex me."

I take a last deep breath and straighten up all the way. "Then what does being in trouble mean?"

"It means—you know, he's angry. Disappointed in me. I'll probably get a lecture or something."

"Oh, a lecture?" I laugh scornfully. "Forgive me if I'm not drowning in sympathy for you."

He glares. "I wouldn't expect you to understand anyway. Muggles don't understand honour or family loyalty."

"Have a lot of experience with Muggles, do you?" I snap back, crossing my arms. When he only frowns at me, I scoff. "Ignorant prat."

"You can't talk to me like that!" he exclaims hotly. "When I tell Father, he'll—"

"He'll what?" I demand. "What'll he do, hm? Will he break my wand? Oh, no, they've already done that. Will he forbid me from using my own name? Oh wait, no, he's done that already too! Oh, I know, he'll force me to serve him while he tries to convince other European governments that actually it's a good thing that You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters are basically doing the same things they were doing fifteen years ago, only in legalese this time! But oh drat, that's old news too! So what is he going to do to me Draco? What? Make me stab my own hand for real this time? I've had worse."

"Worse?" he repeats blankly, then presses his lips together angrily.

I give him a level look. "Do you really want to know?"

He doesn't give the order, so I don't tell him.

"Father would still never hex me," he mutters rather crossly.

"I suppose you think that makes him a good person," I reply, heading towards the table where a bowl of fruit sits in the late afternoon sunshine. I'm still too keyed up from the binding's reaction to be truly hungry, but I want something to do with my hands.

"It does," he insists.

"No," I say slowly, selecting a pear. "At most it makes him a decent father. Like, bare-minimum decent. But he's a dreadful person." When I turn around, Draco is staring at me. "What?"

"What do you want me to do then?"

"I don't want you to do anything," I snap, twisting the stem off the pear and throwing it at him. It's too small to make the journey and falls to the carpet halfway between us. His puzzled frown reverts to his more familiar scowl.

"Whatever."

We don't talk anymore, and Mr Malfoy comes back a few hours later, looking pleased with himself. Draco is right about the lecture, but that's really all it is: Mr Malfoy explains why he's unhappy with what Draco did (i.e. tell me I could talk) and says he expects him to do better in the future. As someone who learned discipline off the back of Mum's hand when I was small, I can't help but watch in fascination. It's like getting dressed down by a teacher or something.

Then, of course, he yells at me for a while, calls me stupid a few times, I return the favour, he threatens me again, and I tell him that unless he wants a translator who seems either stupid or rude, neither of which would look good for him, he'd better let me explain at least a little to people who come up and ask. In the end he gives me permission to speak when spoken to, but only to explain that I'm not supposed to talk more. It's restrictive, still, but I'll take any concession I can get.

We stay in Portugal for two weeks. I attend every meeting Mr Malfoy has with Senhor Diniz and their Ministry, meetings from which Draco is often barred, to his intense annoyance, but thankfully I do not go to all of the pureblood's receptions and garden parties and soirées. I don't know how much of that I could take, and even if I'm ordered to stay in my room and not talk to anyone at the hotel, it's better than being surrounded by bigots. The few times I do go, I have chances to tentatively test the binding's response to my new orders concerning how much I'm allowed to explain about myself, and manage to avoid another heart attack.

But there are plenty of times when Draco and I are left alone too. Draco complains bitterly about 'Mudblood babysitting duty' but Mr Malfoy is firm. I don't care either way, though I do have a tiny bit more fun when Draco's there because I have someone to annoy. He's an odd one: he persists in spouting his father's pureblood nonsense, but he never gives me a direct command, even when I goad him to. So I talk about how the Ministry and the Death Eaters have been faking the Order of the Phoenix attacks, and manipulating public opinion about Muggleborns, and my own observations and peripheral involvement. Part of it is that I want to get a rise out of him, but part of it is that I haven't finished sorting it all out for myself yet. And part of it is that focusing on those things helps me forget, for a time, how Viktor and Bigby and everyone think I'm dead now. Draco generally doesn't argue with me, just scowls and pretends he can't hear. But a strange sort of truce grows between us, a way of coexisting that doesn't drive either of us totally mad. It's almost like what I used to live with in the dorm in Gryffindor Tower, only back then everyone except Kay liked antagonizing me. And I wasn't under a blood binding to obey anything they told me to do.

After Portugal, we take a Portkey east into Spain, and spend three weeks there navigating their political system. I already know several dialects of Spanish, as well as Basque, so that aspect of my job is quite easy. I introduce myself as the Babel Witch again, and there is more than polite interest in me from several people, who apparently have contacts in Portugal. It's flattering and alarming at once, because too much recognition could start to work against me.

It doesn't get any easier to obey Mr Malfoy. He is even more impatient with me than he was before, which makes me even more angry and unwilling to cooperate, though the binding still forces me to. He has a harder time in Spain than he did in Portugal, perhaps because there is not a single leader for him to butter up like Senhor Diniz. He gives Draco many lectures on the political system of magical Britain during dinners, when we all eat at the hotel, and I listen in with reluctant interest. I got a glimpse into that world with Madam Bones, but little more, and it's complicated and byzantine and more ancient than I would have suspected. But in the end we finish up in Spain and Portkey on to France.

Knowing French as well as I do from Fleur, I expect to have an easier time skewing what Mr Malfoy says, and am looking forward to his first meeting with their parliament. But due to a scheduling cock-up on their end, we have two days of waiting before it happens. I spend all of that time in the hotel, brooding, while Draco and Mr Malfoy play tourist. On the second day, they seem to go shopping as well, because Draco comes back with a little black velvet box, and he keeps opening it and looking inside for a while before closing it again. I'm in the window seat of our shared room, where I've been for the past two days, and watching him pace and fret makes me feel even more trapped and agitated. "Did someone sell you a hypnotic amulet or something?" I finally demand.

He looks at me, startled. "They're earrings," he says defensively.

"What's wrong with them?"

"Nothing!"

"Then why do you keep looking at them?"

"They're… I got them for my mother. It's her birthday soon and we'll miss it since we're here."

"Oh." I don't even know my Mum's birthday. "But why do you keep looking at them?"

"I…" He gropes for words. "Well, you're a girl!" He thrusts the box in my face. Seed pearls and emerald chips in a little silver latticework. Neat craftsmanship. I'd never wear them though, even if I had pierced ears. "Will she like them?"

"How should I know?" I almost laugh. "I've never even met your mother."

"But you're a girl, so you should know if they're nice."

"You're not buying a gift for 'a girl', you moron, you're buying it for your mum. I can tell they're well made because I've helped in Artisan Designs in the Alley, but I can't tell if they'll suit her tastes. Does she wear earrings like this usually?"

"Not… not usually," he says apprehensively. "But for special occasions, she has some like this."

"Fine, and does she like green?"

"We're Slytherins," he says, as though that answers the question.

"And I'm a Gryffindor, but I don't intend to let that dictate my fashion choices for the rest of my life," I retort, thinking of my dandelion cloak with a surprisingly deep pang of longing. What would have been done with all my things back home?

He scowls. "Yes, she likes green."

"Then I'd say you're fine." I shrug carelessly and go back to looking out the window over the river the hotel abuts. I'm not certain where we are in France: is this the Seine? Rhône? Some smaller river I don't know the name of? I'm not even sure why I care. I'm blood-bound against escaping.

There's a strange kind of silence from behind me. Then Draco says, "When we meet the Parliament tomorrow… Father knows some French."

I turn and stare at him. He shifts nervously from one foot to the other. "He's been worried that you're still mistranslating things, even with the binding. He says he's going to listen to what you say to them without you knowing."

My mouth opens and closes a couple of times. "Why would you tell me that?"

He shrugs, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "It's not right to do a blood-binding on someone without their permission. It's like an Unbreakable Vow, but only one side. You're with us against your will, and Father… If we…" He bites his lip, adopting a look of such acute concentration that it's almost distress. "Mother and Father always told me that being from an old family made us better than other people, especially Mudbloods. But if that's true, why do we need to do all of this underhanded, dishonest stuff? If it's true that we're better, we should be able to prove it and convince people, and I've never been able to, and neither has Father, nor anyone else I know of. You don't believe it, and Granger never believed it, and she's the cleverest one in our year! Why do we need to lie to get something that's rightfully ours? Why do we need to pretend to attack oursel—" He stops short, looking mortified.

I sit up straight, feeling almost electrified. "What do you mean?" I've talked over and over about the Order of the Phoenix and their attack on the Ministry when Herr Heeren was killed, and the attack on the Alley when Tom was killed, and all the smaller ones in between, but the way Draco said that made it sound specific to purebloods. My mind goes flying back, all the way back to the December after I graduated, when the Order made their first attack… on the Malfoys and their guests. Yes, I'd forgotten that was how it started. "When they attacked you at Christmas?" I demand, standing. Draco steps away, eyeing me warily. "How do you know that wasn't real? Did they tell you? Did you know before?"

"No, no, no one told me," he says quickly, backing away till he almost trips over a chair.

"Then how?" I persist, following him. "What's the harm in telling me? Who am I going to tell? I don't talk to anyone but you. I can't write letters. I've got no wand. Come on, satisfy my curiosity."

I watch him waver, emotions flicking almost comically obviously over his face. Anxiety, hope, reluctance, distrust, hope again. "It was Father," he eventually says, so quietly I doubt I heard him right.

"Your dad attacked your home?"

"No, of course not." His dip into honesty hasn't damaged his capacity for scorn. "His reaction. His reaction told me it wasn't real. I looked at him at once when they came, the, the fake Order. He looked shocked, but then sort of… resigned. Like he knew something was coming, but not exactly what, and now there it was." Once he starts talking, he doesn't seem to want to stop. His words come faster and more urgently as he goes. "And then he looked shocked and angry again, but in his lying way. Any time he's not being sincere he has this way of doing expressions, no matter what they are."

I grimace. "Yes, I've been noticing that."

He grimaces back at me, and for a moment there's almost… camaraderie? It's weird, whatever it is. We clear our throats at almost the same instant. He goes to pack away the earrings he got his mum and I go back to staring out the window, but before I can get too far into my thoughts, he clears his throat. Amazed that there could be more, I look at him. But instead of giving me another dose of new information, he asks, very deferentially, "May I ask you something?"

"No promise on answering," I hedge. But even the freedom of saying that, of being pretty confident he won't make me, is a sort of blessing.

He looks briefly affronted, but then more contrite, and says, "Back in Portugal, when you introduced yourself for the first time… Father just told you to lie. Why didn't you take a name that would give you some prestige instead of saying 'Babel Witch'?"

My first impulse is to be sarcastic. 'Because Babel Witch is an awesome title, obviously.' It's a very strong impulse, but he looks actually curious, and as respectful as I've seen him look with anyone except for with his father, so I press it down and go for sincerity instead. "I guess… I just don't see the value of a famous name." Seeing his shock and confusion, I amend, "I mean, I see the value, in that your family is bound to have resources and so on if you need them. That's nice and everything. But… in my experience, people start to put the name before the people, you know? Like, it doesn't matter who you are or what you think, since you're a Malfoy or a Dumbledore or whatever you are. People think coming from a certain family acts as a sort of shorthand for who you are as a person, which is daft. I guess I just think that coming from a family like yours, or the Crouches, or the Bagmans or whoever doesn't automatically make you… admirable? Or at least it shouldn't?" My eyes have gone out of focus as I sort this thought out, and when I look at Draco properly again, he looks so stricken that I almost feel bad. "Which isn't to say you can't be admirable," I add, even though I don't really want to be giving Draco Malfoy of all people a pep talk. "Just that your family or your name doesn't give you a head start or whatever."

"I see," he says faintly, and sort of wanders out into the main room of the suite. I frown after him, wondering whether questioning his worldview so unflinchingly counts as 'hurting a Malfoy' and whether my binding will hold me accountable. But the seconds tick on and I don't have any chest pains, so apparently I haven't done anything too bad.

The next day is our meeting with the parliament, and I am on my absolute best behavior, translation-wise. Many people have heard of me already, and I unreservedly bask in their interest before the meetings begin. I like to imagine Mr Malfoy is put out about the accuracy of my translating, but honestly I don't have time to check because the delegates of the parliament are not at all pleased with him. There are still a lot of hurt feelings about the injuries done to French citizens during the raid on Fleur and Bill's wedding, and I gleefully relate every single complaint to the increasingly-frazzled Mr Malfoy.

All in all, our three weeks in France are not kind to his cause, and glad as I am about that, his shortened temper is also a danger to me, and I have to be careful, which is not a strong suit of mine. But we eventually Portkey south-east to Italy, where we spend a further three weeks. I'm recognized as the Babel Witch again, to Mr Malfoy's clench-jawed irritation, and I enjoy my time learning all the varieties of Italian I can get my ears on. I do end up showing off some, but Minister-killer Nita Linese isn't known for her language gift, so there's no danger of my identity coming out because of it. And Draco and I continue on the path to… well, it's not friendship, exactly, I still don't really like him. But we get along, and talk without arguing sometimes. Once he complained about his dad, which felt like a big deal.

From Italy we head north to Switzerland. We're well out of summer now, but the mountains make me feel the autumn more than the weather per se. For me, mountains mean Hogwarts, and I always went to Hogwarts in the autumn. An upwelling of longing and grief surprises me when I first see the view from the hotel window, and I press it down ruthlessly before either of the Malfoys notices. Draco may not be the utter prat he seemed at the start, but his father is still a complete enemy as far as I'm concerned.

I get a more enthusiastic greeting when we arrive to the Swiss government than Mr Malfoy, which doesn't please him at all, and even though I already know the main official languages, German, French, and Italian, a very enthusiastic woman makes sure I also get to learn the minority language Romansh, which is delightful. We spend almost three weeks in Switzerland, and I notice that the high regard that other purebloods hold Mr Malfoy in, which I'd started to view as the norm, is lacking here. People are actually quite cool towards him, and my mood rises correspondingly. But beyond that, nothing of note happens, and we move on to Austria.

Similarly to France, there are a few empty days before our first meeting with their government representatives, but this gives me time to convince Draco to convince his dad that letting me learn all the varieties of German spoken in Austria will really streamline matters, so I'm allowed to go out with them this time. Plus, unlike in France, neither of them speak any German whatsoever so they need me if they want to navigate.

With directions from the hotel concierge, we Apparate to the Austrian version of Diagon Alley, and the familiarity of the place is equal parts painful and dear. The shops, the crowds, the shouting and laughter… even in German, all the cadences are the same. There's the owl post office, and the apothecary with the same sort of sign as Mr Mulpepper's, and the Quidditch supply shop (which Draco stares at with undisguised hunger). The flats stacked on top of the shops might as well be mine and Rachael's. Such a strong upwelling of homesickness hits me that I fall behind so I can look at everything, and Mr Malfoy snaps at me to stop dawdling.

But only a little way further along, a crowd of about thirty people blocks the street, all listening to a trio of people on a levitated platform. I can't hear until we get close, and once we're close I can't see because I'm shorter than most of the crowd, but at least I can understand. „…claims that their actions are just and in fair retribution to the acts taken against them, but no Muggleborns have come forward to corroborate that!" one of them calls in a dialect of German that I pick up over the course of the sentence. There are mutters from the crowd, and my ears perk up at the mention of Muggleborns. I remember Viktor once saying that prejudice against Muggleborns was less acceptable in Bulgaria and other areas of Eastern Europe because of Grindelwald's legacy, so could that be what they're talking about? „Our goals are to spread acceptance and support for all members of the magical community, no matter their lineage! No one is totally pureblooded, and saying otherwise is stupid and old fashioned! Join the Dandelion's Resistance!" I freeze.

Dandelion's Resistance? It must be a coincidence. There are dandelions everywhere: they're a tenacious weed, that's part of why Viktor gave me the nickname in the first place. And the fact that it's specifically about Muggleborns, well that's… they haven't said this is about the situation back home, no matter how similar it sounds! I mustn't hope! Yet my damn stupid heart is racing a mile a minute and I'm straining for the next words.

„Our founder, Viktor Krum, was there the night their Minister was killed, and for the trial that followed!" My gasp draws eyes from around us, and Draco, standing next to me, says, "Wait, what did they say? Was that Viktor Krum's name?" But it's not an order, so I can ignore it and focus my whole mind on the words coming from the front of the crowd. „He knew and loved the woman accused of the crime, and saw first-hand the injustice meted out by their Ministry! A complete kangaroo court, he says. A sham! He started the Dandelion's Resistance in her name, so that even though she's gone, executed in the most ruthless manner ever conceived by the human mind, her spirit of perseverance shall never be forgotten!"

"Hey. Hey!" Someone grabs my elbow and I realise with a jolt almost like vertigo that I'm crying. My hands are covering my mouth, my heart is breaking for Viktor all over again, and tears are pouring down my cheeks. All the pent up longing and pity and grief I've been stifling these past months as the Malfoys dragged me across Europe has risen up and swamped me and I'm choking on emotion. Viktor is suffering, again, because of me, again. He's alive and healthy and I'm beyond glad for that, but thinking about his pain is like drowning.

Draco is the one who snapped me out of it, and he's looking down at me with mingled anxiety and concern. But Mr Malfoy looms behind him, a malevolent blond demon, and there is no concern whatsoever in him.

"What's wrong with you?" he snaps. "What are they saying?"

For once he forgets to make it a command, so I answer incompletely. "There's a movement here that supports Muggleborns," I say, throwing my shoulders and head back proudly, disregarding the tears still on my face. "They say that anyone who says they're totally pureblood is lying. Our Ministry is unjust and should be brought down."

Mr Malfoy's face is reddening with anger the longer I talk, and I wonder how far I can push him in public. But Draco injertects, "Did they really mention Viktor Krum? Or did it just sound like it?"

I lift my chin a bit further, looking Mr Malfoy right in the eye. "He's the one who started the Dandelion's Resistance." As much as I want to, I don't dare tell them that Viktor started it because of me. Draco may remember we attended the Yule Ball together, but they have no way of knowing the extent of our relationship.

But Mr Malfoy sneers and seems to relax. "The lovesick pup for yours we met at the Leaky Cauldron? Forgive me if I don't tremble at the feet of his little fanclub-turned-activist clique."

I grit my teeth, mentally swearing. I'd forgotten about that. The Christmas Viktor visited me, after getting his tattoos from Bigby, he came to the pub and the Malfoys were there. Hadn't he called me his beloved or something? Okay, my defense is less watertight than I thought. But still, that was years ago. Loads can change in that time. In fact, we had been broken up for most of the intervening time. They definitely don't know about our reconciliation at Fleur's wedding, which is something at least.

We leave the crowd after that, though the trio at the front are still speaking and I want nothing more than to stay and hear more about Viktor. Mr Malfoy makes a big show of nonchalance about the Dandelion's Resistance, but I notice that he frowns more than usual, and we return to the hotel long before supper time. He shuts himself in his room, so Draco and I are left, yet again, to our own devices. Draco slumps into a chair, like he's got anything to be exhausted about, but I'm practically vibrating with nervous energy. Viktor's actively working against the Ministry, telling people that their actions are unethical and that my trial was a fraud, especially since he thinks they actually went through with the sentence… I've tried to avoid thinking about it, but for all Viktor knows, I died by Dementor's Kiss months ago, just days after we reconciled and made plans to escape together. I can't imagine how I would feel if our positions were reversed, and I hate thinking of what he must be feeling. It feels like something important inside me is being torn in half. It makes it hard to breathe. What if I never get free of the Malfoys? What if he goes the rest of his life not knowing I survived? What if we never see each other again?

"So you've got feelings, I reckon," Draco says out of pure nowhere.

"I've… WHAT?" I splutter.

He has the grace to blush a little. "I mean, I know you've got feelings," he says. "That's not what I… I mean, you and Viktor Krum, you were… together? Right?"

I shift from foot to foot, suddenly awkward. I don't like talking about my feelings or my relationship even with people I actually like and trust, and Draco is not on either list. But what's the use of lying? "...Yes," I admit.

"And you… do you love him? Or did you?"

Why is he asking this? Why does he care? But again, why should I lie? "Yes," I say, more softly.

Draco twists his fingers together, an uncharacteristic display of apprehension, or something very like it. He glances at the door to his father's room, still shut and impermeable. "What is it like?" he asks very quietly. "To fall in love?"

It's such an unexpected question that I have to stare at him for a moment. And it's so gentle that I'm not even sure I've understood him properly. "Falling in love?" I repeat.

He nods, looking desperately uncomfortable.

"Well, I mean… shouldn't your dad or someone be who you ask?" Sure, we've been getting along marginally better since France, but not intimate-heart-to-heart-about-love-and-stuff better. We're not friends.

"Father is… always happy to tell me about my duty to the family," he says stiltedly. "The purpose of marriage is making a connection to another important family, ideally one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. If I love my wife, that's fine, but it's not… not a prerequisite. He says he and Mother love each other, but they didn't when they got married and they turned out to be a fortunate match. He doesn't talk about falling in love at all."

I don't know what the Sacred Twenty-Eight is, but it sounds pureblood-y and pointless. As for the rest of it… "That's a stupid way to run your life."

Predictably, he frowns at me. "That's how we've always done it in my family."

"And?" I ask flatly. "Are only old things good? Is food better the older it gets? Do you want last year's cake for your birthday this year?"

"My family is not cake!" he retorts hotly.

I relent a little. "Here then: if someone finds a way to improve a potions recipe, do you reject that change? Do you say the previous way is better just because it's older?"

"No, of course not."

"No, you'd be stupid if you did. Why are family traditions any different? Just because you've always done things one way, you're not allowed to change? Even if it would make you happy?"

He mumbles something, and from the part I catch, it sounds like he's saying that several of his ancestors would probably say exactly that.

I stare at him. "And those are the people you want to please?" I ask, honestly curious. "A load of dead people who don't care about your happiness?"

He swallows hard. "But… if I don't uphold those traditions, I won't be a Malfoy anymore."

I take that in. It's clear he means more than the simple name. But I still think it's daft. "When your dad was doing the blood binding on me, he said I had to obey 'the Malfoys', and when I asked what that meant, he said 'anyone who bears the name'. You're still covered, by that definition."

His look is very sober. "I might not be, if I displease him too much."

"...You mean he'd disown you?" I say, shocked. "For what? For, for falling in love with the wrong person?"

"If they were wrong enough," he says seriously.

"Not pureblooded enough, you mean?"

He nods.

"And you still say he loves you?" I ask sceptically.

"He does," he snaps, scowl making its reappearance.

I hold my hands up defensively. "Fine, fine. It's just interesting, how you talk about him. I never thought my father loved me, but I also never had his name. Our issues were… different." I grimace. Thinking of Bagman and his lies at my nondisclosure hearing still brings a bad taste to my mouth, all this time later. I've got more serious concerns than that now, but even so. Few things piss me off more than liars.

"You don't have…? Where did 'Linese' come from then?" He sounds so flummoxed that I smile.

"My mum, you moron. You know, the woman who gave birth to me? You recently bought earrings for yours, so I know you know the concept." He reddens angrily, but I suddenly realise something and clap a hand to my forehead. "Oh my god! I am Muggleborn!" The confusion in Draco's face is a beautiful thing to see. "Born of a Muggle, right? Muggle-born? Mum is a Muggle! Hah! Wow!"

"But then… who is your father?"

I set my hands on my hips and raise an eyebrow. "You want to know the truth about my parents? You know how to find out."

He averts his eyes, brows furrowed.

From Austria, we head north to Belgium, the Netherlands, and Denmark, skirting around Germany for some reason. Probably political scheduling mumbo jumbo, and it's not my job to know anyway, so I focus on learning Dutch, Belgian French and German, Flemish, and Danish, though most Danes know English anyway. My reputation as the Babel Witch precedes us, and it definitely annoys Mr Malfoy, but he can't exactly complain about his translator doing too good of a job. Autumn passes into a harsh and blustery winter, and a cloak and boots are added to my wardrobe. Draco and I continue to get along better than either of us ever expected to. He still doesn't give me any orders, and I continue to be silently grateful.

Best of all, the Dandelion's Resistance turns out to be a serious movement, and we hear about it more and more as the weeks go on. Wild pleasure and giddy pride rise in me every time I hear the words from a dubious government representative, and it takes everything in me to resist asking Mr Malfoy what he thinks of my 'lovesick pup' now. 'And what do you say to the Dandelion Resistance's allegations of your Ministry tampering with the news?' 'And what do you say to the Dandelion Resistance's allegations of rigging trials against dissenters?' 'And what do you say to the Dandelion Resistance's allegations of abuse of Muggleborn citizens?' I enjoy relaying these questions more than I can possibly express, but Mr Malfoy can tell, and I can see him seething with anger.

The lid stays on until we get to Germany.

It had truly not occurred to me that we might be meeting Herr Nachtnebel and his team, or that they might remember me from when I translated for them at the transfer ceremony for One Who Stands Resolutely In The Wind Of Pain. And Herr Nachtnebel himself doesn't seem to recognize me, so at first I think I'm safe. We arrive to the Ministerium für Magie midmorning on a frigid day in late January and are met by a bevy of solicitous but business-like aides, who shepherd us along to a conference room, several of them enthusiastically greeting me and quizzing me on the sorts of German I've learned so far while a few others silently offer refreshments to the Malfoys. Herr Nachtnebel and a half dozen others stand to greet us when we get to the conference room, and a frisson of realisation and anxiety skitters up my spine. I don't recognize any of the others, except for one man: the one who comforted me at the ceremony, after the fake Order of the Phoenix killed poor Herr Heeren. And by the way his eyes light up and fix on me, he remembers me too.

Fortunately, we have the whole meeting to be gotten through first, and I pay less attention to my translating than usual, instead going around in dizzy mental circles, trying to figure a way out of this.

I haven't come up with anything by the time the whole thing ends. One of the Germans solicitously says she knows enough English to do the job for a moment, if I need a break for a drink of water or anything, and since I actually am rather parched, I take her up on the offer and stand off to the side with my glass, trying to be inconspicuous.

I'm not inconspicuous enough.

„I'm glad to see you doing well, Miss." The man has followed me over and now stands smiling down at me. He's a jolly-looking sort, now that we're not in the aftermath of a violent attack. Plump and red-cheeked with brushy dark hair going grey at the temples. „And I'm glad you've not lost your deft touch with our language."

I smile stiffly and murmur, „Thank you." As per my adjusted orders from Portugal, I am allowed to be polite to people who come up and talk to me, so long as I say nothing as to the nature of my relationship with the Malfoys etc etc.

He beams down at me. „I don't believe I ever introduced myself. I am Berndt Amsel. My position here is equivalent to that of your employer, if I understand correctly."

„Pleased to properly meet you," I reply. A space forms where my own introduction should go. It's rude not to give my name, but I'm bound not to, and giving my title or alias instead would only draw attention to its absence.

His look is speculative and bright as he registers my silence, but then he nods over to where Mr Malfoy is still talking to Herr Nachtnebel and the English-speaking woman. „I must say, I don't know quite what to make of him," he says thoughtfully. „Have you been traveling with them long? What do you think?"

„I really shouldn't say," I say lightly, heart pounding.

„Ah, but come now," he cajoles. „Between friends?"

„I'm afraid my, my contract is quite strict." I try to sound regretful rather than panicked.

„Ah, those pesky reputation protection clauses," he sighs. „But surely there would be no problem sharing your opinion if it were positive?"

I freeze with my glass of water halfway to my lips.

„Ah-ha," he says kindly. „Not such good people then. But is he just a run-of-the-mill ambitious politician? For they are never good people. Or something worse?"

I unstick my tongue from the top of my mouth. „He—cares very much for his family," I blurt. No blood binding is ever going to make me a good liar, but that familiar twinge is growing in my chest and I have to say something to protect their reputation, much as I hate it. „And he's loyal to his, his cause. He's very dedicated."

Herr Amsel's gaze is keen and disquieting. „I'm sure he is," he assures me, and the pain subsides. „You are also very dedicated to your work, Miss," he goes on contemplatively. „I remember our dear Herr Heeren after his first meeting with you, how delighted he was with your skill. Tell me, what are some differences between your current employer and the woman you worked for then? Madam Bones, wasn't it?"

My breath catches. He knows. Maybe not the exact facts, but he knows enough to be suspicious. He's basically demonstrated that he's on my side, if sides there are, but that's not the problem: I'm the problem. The binding makes me a threat to myself more than anything or anyone else. But if someone else knew, a more experienced wizard, he might be able to help me. I heard Mr Malfoy telling Draco we're to be in Germany for almost three weeks: surely Herr Amsel could find some way to work around the binding in that time? It's a crazy thought, but it's the first shred of hope I've had since August.

„When I worked for Madam Bones, my binding was only in sweat," I say, staring directly at him. „Then I did some work for another Department of my Ministry, and that binding was in tears." His face loses its jolly mein. „Now…" But of course I can't say what my situation is now. So I say the next words very slowly, testing each one to see if that sharp pinch of pain rises up to stop me. „Now I am forbidden from saying my own name."

His look is grave and intense. „I have heard tell," he says softly, „that the woman in whose name Viktor Krum founded the Dandelion's Resistance was a skilled linguist as well."

I don't dare nod. I hardly dare breathe. „Viktor thinks I'm dead."

„And if you could tell him otherwise, would you?"

The glass of water slips from my fingers as they reflexively spasm and smashes on the floor. Herr Amsel exclaims and draws his wand to clean up the puddle and shards, but we've gotten the attention of everyone else, and Mr Malfoy senses something he doesn't like. He strides over purposefully and grabs me roughly by the arm. "Not a problem, Herr Malfoy, not a problem!" the English-speaking woman calls reassuringly, assuming him to be upset about the broken glass.

"When we get back to the hotel, you will tell me exactly what this man said," he hisses to me. The imperative settles into me like a burn.

We stay another half hour, long enough for pleasantries, and Herr Amsel and I don't say another word to each other. My heart is thudding sickly when we take our leave and Draco Apparates himself and me back to the main room of the hotel suite. At once, Mr Malfoy's command makes itself known as the same growing pressure on my chest. He turns cool, glittering eyes on me. "Well?" he says softly.

And of course, I have to tell him. Word for word, I repeat Herr Amsel's part of the conversation. I cling to the fact that the order Mr Malfoy gave only enjoins me to recite Herr Amsel's words accurately, and fudge and elide as much of my side of the conversation as possible. Perhaps if he thinks that Herr Amsel is just extremely perceptive and happened to recognize me without my giving anything away, I can avoid the worst of the inevitable punishment.

It still comes out very badly. I can't hide that Herr Amsel figured out who I am, and that he may have a contact within the Dandelion's Resistance. Mr Malfoy is apoplectic when I'm finally through. He blasts several chairs and a settee to splinters and smashes a lamp into a huge, decorative mirror.

When he finally stops cursing things, he, Draco, and I are left standing in the ruins of the room, silent. Mr Malfoy's fingers work over the grip of his wand, turning it around and around, and I watch the small movement with dread. Then all at once, he levitates a shard of wood, formerly the leg of a chair I think, and with a little flick, Transfigures it into a gleaming knife. My breathing goes uneven and shallow. "Kneel and put your palm to the floor," he says flatly.

I don't even wait for the jab of pain in my side to make me obey.

He waves his wand and the knife floats over till it's hanging in the air in front of me, blade pointed away. "Take it," he says. Shaking, I do. "Now stab it through your hand."

"Father—" Draco says, but Mr Malfoy cuts him off coldly.

"This is what we do to people who threaten the family, Draco. You may have turned her into a sort of pet these last months, don't think I haven't noticed, but do not let that blind you to what she is. Mudbloods are not like us. They need to be shown their place."

I stare at the knife, deaf to their conversation, blind to Draco's horror, aware of nothing but the choice before me, and how really it is no choice at all. The twinging, pinching pain is already starting in my side, an insistent demand for obedience. The knife handle rests in my sweaty palm, the blade razor sharp and shining. I move the point towards my other hand, the one pressed to the floor. Touch the tip to my skin. The pain in my side retreats, slightly, but surges again when I fail to press it in. And it builds and builds to piercing agony, worse than ever before as I resist the command, until I'm gasping for air and my eyes are swimming in a haze of grey and red and I just want it to end, just make it stop, please—

At first it's not like pain at all, the blade embedded in my hand. It's relief, because the binding's torture is gone. But then it burns. Blood leaks out almost sluggishly. The sound I'm making isn't crying: more a keening. Long, high, plaintive sobs. My pride hates this, but how small my pride is in the face of this agony.

And then, "Again," Mr Malfoy commands.

Four times, he makes me drive the knife into my hand. Each time the battle inside me is longer and each time I lose to the binding's imperative pain. After the forth, I collapse, and he orders me into my bedroom. I go, cradling my hand against my heart like a dying animal I don't know how to help. The nearest bed is Draco's I think, but I don't care. I crawl onto it and curl up into as tight a ball as I can.

Pain makes time hazy, but the next thing I know, Draco is kneeling beside me, doing some kind of spell on my hand. I jerk away and gasp in renewed pain, but it's less than before, slightly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Draco whispers, and his voice is thick. What's that on his face? Tears? "I've had no practice in medical magic. I think I've stopped the bleeding, though." I carefully sit up, seeing as I do that I'm in a small pool of tacky, half-coagulated blood. My hand is stiff and hot and swollen, but clean, and the wounds are closed, though lividly reddish-purple.

"Thank you," I manage.

"Don't—don't thank me, please, don't—" His voice breaks and I see that he really was crying, and still is. "I don't deserve… What he, what we've done to you is… Father, he says, he says you're, you're 'too much trouble'. He says we have to… get rid of you. Soon."

I stare at him, trying hard to understand. "I get to go away?"

He makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a croak and shakes his head. "He means to kill you."

Oh. All this, and I might as well have taken the Kiss anyway.

"Did you hear me?" he asks worriedly. "He's going to kill you! We've got to do something!"

I shake my head slowly. "There's nothing to do."

"There must be!" he protests, desperate and angry. Deep inside, some little bit of me is proud of him.

"It's in the original binding," I say helplessly. "I'm not allowed to escape."

His face goes very serious. "Nita," he says. "We're going to get you free. Tell me exactly what the binding said."

For the first time, I gladly obey an order given by a Malfoy.

A/N

So that was a doozy of a chapter. Should I put a warning at the top for physical abuse? I found the last part very intense to write, but I know that doesn't always translate to being intense to read, so let me know what you think.

Also, I've played sort of fast and loose with what's happening on the Hogwarts end of things. I know the 'tentpole' moments still happen-Sirius dies, Dumbledore dies, etc. But Draco was never given his mission to kill Dumbledore, so he needed a different kind of humble pie.

E.I. signing out