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.

12. Exigence

Exigence

The next morning, very early, Mr Malfoy rouses me and Draco and orders us to dress for cold weather. If he notices that my hand is more healed than it naturally could be, he doesn't say anything. It's still tender, stiff, and swollen, but it's no longer totally mangled. We don cloaks and boots, sharing looks full of trepidation, and join him in the main room of the suite. "Where are we going?" Draco asks.

"You'll see," his father says shortly. "Take my hand, both of you." Still bound to obey, I do, making the scantest possible contact with his skin. Loathing courses through me, hot and pounding. What I wouldn't give to see him suffer what I've suffered, see him brought low and humiliated…

He Apparates us to a desolate beach, presumably somewhere along the northern coast of Germany. Dark stones and tufts of dry, dead grass stick out starkly through thin snow, and the wind hisses over the ocean, lifting slow waves from its sluggish surface. The sun's not even properly up yet: the horizon is a soft grey line off to the right, and the two men beside me are more shapes than people.

"Father...?" Draco asks uncertainly. He hadn't been able to find out if Mr Malfoy had a real plan on how to kill me. He's nervous of having to actually confront his father, and as much as I don't share the feeling, I do understand it. But I'm still not willing to die for it.

Mr Malfoy ignores him. "Walk into the water," he orders me. "Till it's over your head. Then breathe."

Immediately, the pressure of the binding starts building in my chest. The twinge of pain next to my heart threatens to get just as bad as it did yesterday, when he made me stab my hand. I pace slowly forward, my mind racing. I can't resist, not indefinitely, the binding will kill me and the pain will be unimaginable before it gets that far. Are there ways to reinterpret what he said? Can I walk out till it's over my head and then try to float? I'm not a strong swimmer by any stretch of the imagination, but maybe I can do a dead-man float till they go away?

"Wait!" Draco cries.

I stop, trying to hide how I'm trembling under my cloak. I don't turn around, but I hear Mr Malfoy's impatient question, and Draco replying in a good approximation of his usual haughtiness, "I know she must die, but there is no call for such a, a base method. Allow me… I'll prove my loyalty, Father." Mr Malfoy grumbles something that must be assent, because Draco's footsteps crunch towards me over the rime of icy sand. I turn around when they stop, and look him in the eye.

I'm teetering on the edge of trust. Last night, when he helped me with my hand and made me explain the binding, I was ready to believe he'd had a change of heart. But we'd come up with no solid plans, so unless he's had some brilliant inspiration since then, he's about to do something dire.

He draws his wand and points it at me, and I tense. Then, in the softest of whispers, he says, "Grab my hand."

I stare for a moment, almost too stunned to register the binding's imperative grip tightening, or Mr Malfoy's impatient, "Well, Draco?" Then I lunge forward and seize his hand, wrapping my fingers around his, and around his wand. Mr Malfoy shouts "NO!" but 'no' is not a command and Draco is already Disapparating us away.

We land with a thump in a field. The wind is whipping here, blowing my hair in every direction and flapping my cloak around my legs. Sharp stems of frozen crops stab my ankles, and I gasp once in pain, then again in relief as I realise that we've done it: I'm free. I turn wide eyes on Draco, who looks a bit unsteady. "Where are we?" I ask, letting go of his hand. I'm free, I'm free, I'm free. The words pound through me with every beat of my heart, but practical concerns are important too.

"Um… south. Of where we were."

"South?"

He shrugs uncomfortably. "There wasn't anywhere to go north. We were on the coast." I have to give him that. "Where… where should we go? Bulgaria?"

"Bulgaria?" I repeat, the throb of my heart changing to roar, Viktor, Viktor, Viktor! "No." It's difficult to say, but necessary. "No, that wouldn't be responsible."

"What? Why?" he asks, sounding put out.

"Because, your father knows I know Viktor. That's probably the first place he'll look for us, since you so conveniently made it look like I kidnapped you back there."

He opens his mouth as though to protest, but closes it with a look of chagrin. "I hadn't realised how that would seem to him."

"I mean, I don't mind or anything. He'll think something went wrong with the binding somehow. But we shouldn't go to Bulgaria. I can't endanger him like that."

He nods soberly. "I understand. But… where do we go, if not there?"

I think for a moment, then start to smile. "Remember the dragons from the Triwizard Tournament?"

It takes a long time to Apparate all the way to the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary. We've got to get out of Germany first, then across a corner of Poland, through the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Hungary before we're even in the right country. Even considering how early we began the journey, it takes most of the day and Draco is exhausted. Neither of us have anything to eat, and the cold is wearing and constant. I almost offer to take a turn Apparating, but asking to use his wand is a step too far, even I know that.

"Bet you're glad we decided not to go to Bulgaria after all, eh?" I say, blowing into my cupped hands on one of our breaks. We've come out in a copse of skeletal trees by a half-frozen river with railroad tracks on the other side. There are mountains in the near distance, dull stone and patches of snow. Tremendously desolate, but still beautiful. Still freedom. "Then you'd have to get us all the way across Romania too. And Bulgaria as well, I think. Viktor lives by the Black Sea."

"Hnn." Draco is slumped on a log next to me, resting his head in his palm.

Concern prickles uncomfortably through me. Draco risked and gave up a lot by helping me escape. If he puts himself into an exhaustion coma or something, it'll be on me.

"Come on," I cajole nervously. "We're nearly there, we must be. And once we're there, they'll feed us. And think how warm it'll be: they have dragons there, how could it not be warm?"

"Yeah," he sighs.

I bite my lip. "Five more minutes, then another go?" I suggest.

"Fine."

The next jump doesn't go right though. Instead of popping out of the twisting darkness in some new forest or dell, it's like we collide with an invisible wall and careen back into reality in knee-deep snow. We both go arse over tea kettle and tumble down the slope a little ways, yelling all the while and getting snow everywhere. When we both manage to halt our slides and scramble to our feet, my hand throbbing harshly all the while, there are several figures standing at a distance from us, wands drawn but not pointed at us. One of them steps forward and says something in what I think is Russian. I'm still too discombobulated from our tumble to catch all of it, but it sounds like something about wards, and dragons, and danger.

"I don't know that language yet," I call back. "Can you say that again?"

"Nita?" says a shocked voice. "Nita Linese?" One of the figures steps forward, pulling his cloak's hood down to reveal the trademark red hair.

"Charlie!" I shout, beyond pleased. Having Charlie here could make this a hundred times easier. "Yes, it's me, and I've got Draco Malfoy here with me, but it's alright! Are we near the sanctuary? We've been out all day, we're knackered, I think he's about to keel over."

He staggers down the slippery snow field to us, looking gobsmacked and delighted. "It's really you? But how? You killed, I mean, your trial, they said Dementors… Draco Malfoy? How did you…? What's going on?" The other three dragon wranglers have followed Charlie down the slope, and he turns and says in rough but passable German, „Is okay, I know them. Well, her anyway." Two of them nod, and one turns to murmur in Russian to the last, who nods as well. Quite a multilingual group, I realize hopefully. Maybe I can make myself useful as well as asking for help.

"It's a long story," I say quickly. "I can't even tell half of it. It might be dangerous to take us in, I hate to ask, but will you? We've nowhere else to go."

Charlie grins at me. "Dangerous? Nita, we work with dragons for a living. Whatever you're bringing with you, we can handle. Come on, we'll take you in Side-Along. We've got to get inside the wards though, come on…"

Charlie and the others guide us back uphill till we're inside where the wards must end. Then Charlie gives me his arm—both alike and utterly different from that day seven months ago at Fleur and Bill's wedding—and Draco nervously takes the hand of another of them. One last twisting trip through sucking darkness and we land in a large, echoing chamber of rough-hewn grey stone. A large square tower, I think, looking at how a staircase snakes around the interior wall, which is lined with doors, all closed. The level we're on is large and open, with a gaping fireplace in one wall, an open stairwell descending to whatever is below, a huge battered wood table in the middle, and a boulder-sized grey dragon coiled up in a knot in the corner. Smoke drifts lazily from its nostrils, which are all that I can see of its face as the rest of it is hidden under its wing. "Uh," I say.

"Oh, don't worry, Shale's harmless," Charlie says carelessly. "Unless he sits on you."

"Uh," I repeat.

"But what do you need first?" Charlie says, suddenly all business. "You've been out all day? Are you hungry? We can get beds ready, we have some spare rooms. Here, let's go by the warmth." He ushers us—well, me, mostly, with Draco trailing behind—towards the fireplace. As we go, Charlie calls in German again, „Could one of you see if there are anything of lunch downstairs? And tea or cider mulled?" One of the others ducks down the stairs, and the remaining two, with many curious glances after us, Disapparate.

"Thanks," I say, already warming my fingers at the raging fire. Draco stares into it at my side, looking pretty well dead on his feet. Guilt worms up in me again. But we're about to eat and be given beds, so he'll be back to normal before long. Though what will that mean? Will he come to his senses and want to go back to his father? I shake my head. What could he tell Mr Malfoy if he did? That I'd held him prisoner somehow all day? That he eventually overpowered or tricked me and killed me after all? That might not be a bad idea, actually…

"Your hand…" Charlie murmurs, and I blink myself back to reality. Holding my hands out to the fire means I've accidentally revealed the four livid stab wounds. And it's still swollen as well. "That wasn't like that, before, was it?"

"No," I sigh. "That's part of the story."

Normally I hate talking about myself and things I've been through, and this is no exception. But I can't even talk about half of it without risking the binding's reaction, so I enlist Draco for the iffier parts. He cooperates stoically, if awkwardly, especially after two bowls of thick stew and mugs of some kind of spicy tea come floating up the stairs for us. I start off at Fleur and Bill's wedding, which Charlie nods through familiarly til I get to the fight with Crouch and my killing him. My arrest and imprisonment are quick to get through, though the Cruciatus is difficult to talk about and Charlie and Draco are both pale afterwards. My trial is public knowledge, so I skip that, and then fetch up against a problem. I don't know the situation with the Order of the Phoenix, so outing the Auror who helped me might not be wise. I leave him out for now, simply saying that Malfoy and Snape must have decided that my language skill could be put to good use. Since Snape had already convinced You-Know-Who out of killing me, it's plausible enough. From there, Draco has to help quite a lot, as he helps explain about the blood binding and our travels with his father and the various abuses I underwent with them. Charlie is tight-lipped and pale throughout the telling, and his glances at Draco get harsher and more full of judgement. I hasten to explain that yes, while Draco is more or less a huge prat and has a lot of stupid ideas about things still, he did help me escape from his father at very real risk to his status and even life. Charlie seems to accept this, but still looks displeased.

We finally come to the events of the previous day, and I'm more honest about what I said to Herr Amsel. Relating Mr Malfoy's reaction proves too difficult, and in the end I show Charlie my hand again and say, "And as punishment, he made me do this." His face goes practically grey with horror. "And then this morning he took us to the beach to make me drown myself, but Draco helped me escape. We've been Apparating all day. I'm surprised he's still awake, frankly."

"'M fine," Draco protested, obviously half-asleep already.

"Someone should look at your hand," Charlie says firmly. "The medical ward is downstairs. Does he…" He glances significantly at Draco. "He should just get some rest, right?"

"I reckon, yeah. Er… Draco? You hear that?"

"Mm?"

No then. "You can go to bed now. ...Thank you. For helping me. I'll… see you later?" I wince. What are you supposed to say to someone who saved your life and worked themselves to exhaustion for you but who's still a stuck-up pureblood you don't really like yet? But he just nods and follows Charlie's instructions to take the stairs up the wall till he comes to an open door, as someone should have prepared a room by now. We watch him go for a minute.

"That kid was a right dick to the twins and Ron and Ginny back at Hogwarts," Charlie says darkly.

I nod. "And their friend Hermione Granger, yeah. I think he's sorry about that now though. If he earns it, and they want to, they'll forgive him."

"I might not," he mutters.

I shrug. "Up to you."

He gives me a strange look, but doesn't take it further, instead leading us down the stairwell the bowls of stew had come from. We enter a kitchen, thick with savory smells, the shelves and counters practically overflowing with ingredients and cooking apparatus. A gnarled old man with a crooked nose and only one eye bends over a simmering cauldron, stirring the contents with a long wooden stave and shaking in salt. ‹Hey, Dima!› Charlie calls in Russian as we pass through. The old man grunts and doesn't look up. We exit into a crooked sort of corridor with several doors leading out at odd angles. The one he picks lets us into a small, cluttered room, with a worktable covered in potions ingredients and several bubbling cauldrons, a large vat labeled 'BURN OINTMENT' in five languages, a hat rack with what seems to be a nest made out of scarves and bits of glass in the top of it where several colourful lizard-like faces peer curiously down at me, and a narrow hospital bed in the middle of it all. "Sofia!" Charlie calls. "You in here?"

"Learn real language, barbarian," a woman grumbles, and stands from behind the bed. Sofia, for I assume this is she, is short, with scruffy dirty-blond hair and blue eyes. Her wand is stuck behind her ear like a quill. Her accent is not one I'm familiar with, but it's definitely Eastern European. She sets a fat book on the bed and crosses her arms. "Yes, hello, what? Are we hurt?"

"I was," I offer uncertainly.

"Yes, good, I will look. Come."

Trying to decide whether to be annoyed at her calling my injured state 'good', I step forward and show her my hand. She hisses in shock and sympathy, and I immediately forgive her comment. "When?" she demands. "What?"

"Yesterday," I tell her. "A knife."

"I'll, uh, give you some privacy," Charlie says. "But we have more to talk about, Nita. I'll be in the main room upstairs when you're done. Bye, Fia."

Sofia ignores him and pulls her wand from behind her ear as he shuts the door after himself. She waves her wand over my hand, muttering all the while. I have no idea what she's doing, but it doesn't hurt, so I let her continue. At last, she puts her wand aside and gives me a very direct look. "Can heal as like a bad bite, stop pain. But spells done before make scars, can't go away. Yes?"

"Okay," I say, heart falling a bit at the thought of those eight ugly marks on my skin forever. But if she can make my hand stop hurting, I'll take them gladly. "Um, can I ask, where are you from?"

She glances at me. "Slovenia."

"Will you speak some of your language for me? I learn languages fast, and I'd like to know as many as possible."

She looks at me sceptically, but shrugs and complies. When I pick it up in the space of a minute, there's the common reaction of shock, disbelief, and confusion, but it's swiftly followed by absolute glee on her part. _This is great! No one here speaks Slovene!_ She waves a hand to encompass the rest of the sanctuary. _I know some English and some Russian, but it is so frustrating to be locked out of any kind of fluency when I want to speak to anyone!_ She becomes downright chatty from there on, giving more detailed explanations on what she can do to my hand mixed with gossip about the rest of the Sanctuary staff. The main procedure she performs on me is to create a small cloud sorbet-pink mist around my hand. I can feel small bits of tissue coming back into alignment, reconnecting and shifting into the right place. It's acutely uncomfortable and strange, but not quite painful. It's mainly creepy, so I focus on her voice in an attempt to distract myself. She's telling a story about Charlie and several others of the younger staff flying all the way to Hogwarts on brooms to rescue a dragon who'd been living on the grounds somewhere. What year had that been? Was I in the castle while there was a stray dragon running around? I would bet gold Harry Potter was involved somehow though.

_Alright, your hand should be almost better by now,_ she finally says. _Try moving your fingers._

Gingerly, I do, and almost gasp in relief when there is no pain. _That's so much better. Thank you._

She nods, looking satisfied. _The scars shouldn't be worse, but sometimes surface wounds react strangely to the inner tissue rearranging. Do they look the same to you?_ She dissipates the mist and I flex my hand again, relishing the easy movement. The scars are still plainly visible, the ones on my palm and the ones on the back, and something else has appeared on the back of my hand as well. I frown down at it. My name? Why is—

_Oh my god._

_What?_ Sofia says anxiously. _Did they get worse? They're not supposed to, but I don't usually treat wounds more than a few hours old—_

_No, the stab wounds are… they're the same. It's…_ How to explain the binding? The quill that drew blood as it wrote? I'm not even sure what kind of magic that was, and in combination with the binding, of course things could go weird. I stare at my hand. My name looks back at me: Nita, just as I wrote it on the parchment that day. But the rest of it, Linese, is marred by one of the stab wounds, like it's been crossed out.

Well. Haven't I always said that 'Nita' is the part that matters? _It's fine,_ I say slowly. _Thank you, truly._

_….Alright,_ she says dubiously. _Can I show you a charm to use if any pain comes back?_

_Oh,_ I say, gut clenching. _I mean, I would, only I… I haven't got a wand right now._

_Oh,_ she says, startled. _Did you lose it or something? Do you need a new one?_

_It's a long story,_ I reply, exhausted just at the thought of explaining my trial. _Do you have spare wands here? Could I borrow one?_

_You can have one,_ she says happily. _You think no one ever breaks a wand around here? Or gets one burned to a crisp? Wait a minute._ She goes out, and I wait, examining my hand and testing again that it really does move properly. Sofia returns a little while later, toting a box whose contents rattle. _Here,_ she says proudly, setting it down on the examination bed next to me. _What was your old wand made of?_

_Applewood. And unicorn hair._

_Ah, that makes sense, applewood is affinate to people who love language. I haven't got any, unfortunately, and most of our cores are dragon heartstring, as you'd imagine… Well, tell me about yourself._

_Uh…._

_Just basic things,_ she says, opening the lid of the box. Inside, it's divided into small compartments, with one wand slotted into almost all of them. There are almost thirty, and part of me wonders where she got them all. _Are you stubborn or easygoing? What do you do when you're angry? What's the relationship you value most?_

_Uh!_ I splutter, thinking that if she considers those sorts of questions basic, I don't want to even hear her intimate ones. And really, what does this have to do with getting a new wand? Ollivander just took a load of measurements when I got my first one before Hogwarts! Can't Sofia just do that? _I mean, I am stubborn… I don't think anyone's ever called me 'easygoing' once in my life. If I'm angry, I mean, it depends. If I'm angry at a person there's a strong chance I'll hex them. Or hit them. I was trying to work on my temper, a while ago, but… Anyway, if I'm angry at a situation…. I don't know, I guess I just stomp around scowling until I can change it?_

She's nodding eagerly, pulling wands out one at a time and laying them aside. _What are your parents like?_

_I hate them,_ I say at once. _They're worse than useless. If they died I wouldn't be sorry._

Her hand stills, and she slowly slides the wand she had selected back into its home. _Any siblings?_

Draco flashes through my mind for a split second,but that's too weird of an idea to even countenance. _No,_ I say.

More questions follow, and she removes or replaces wands based on my answers. Not many of them are as invasive as the parents one, but I remain uncomfortable the whole time. At last, she holds four wands out to me. _Cypress, pine, fir, or aspen._

_What, I just… choose one?_

_Well, test. These are the ones I think you're most likely to get along with, but we can try others if nothing seems right._

I nod, and pluck the pine wand from her fingers. Swish it experimentally. To my amazement, there is a feeling of… not quite sentience, but intention, perhaps? I used to feel something like that in my old wand sometimes, but I put it down to having had it for so long. The intention of this wand is like a dog that sniffs my hand and then shies away rather than asking for ear scratches. I shake my head. _It wants me to be different than I am._

She nods and sticks it back in the box. Next I pick the aspen, and as soon as I flick it, a bolt of pure magic jumps out and turns the door into a cloud of butterflies. Sofia yelps and laughs and changes it back, and I return the wand ruefully. _Too excitable._ Next is the cypress. I try a few simple charms, and they work fine, but there's a sort of reticence that takes me longer than it should to identify. _It doesn't trust me,_ I say, surprised and obscurely hurt. What did I ever do?

Last is the fir, and at first it doesn't seem to like me either. It doesn't settle well into my hand, and when I try out a lumos, it seems to hesitate before complying. But I tell it "Nox," a bit more forcefully, and it sort of decides to cooperate, I feel it happen, though I'm not sure how. _I think we'll get along,_ I say cautiously.

_Good,_ Sofia says happily. _That's our only phoenix tail feather core wand. Treat it well, eh?_

_Oh,_ I say, uncertain what to make of that. My associations with Phoenixes aren't wholly positive, after all.

_Right,_ she says, shutting the wand box with a clack. _Anything else you need before you go find Charlie? Do you have other clothes besides those?_

_No,_ I admit, looking with distaste at the burgundy dress and pointy-toed boots Mr Malfoy had decided on for me.

_Okay, you can borrow some of mine. One second._ She leaves again, taking the wand box with her, and I pass the time casting little charms, marvelling at the simple pleasure of a hover charm, a warming charm, other basic spells learned in first year under Flitwick's benevolent eye. I can't believe what a relief it is to do magic again. I never thought I would forget how, but in the long months I spent with the Malfoys, I sometimes despaired of ever having the chance again. But I am a witch, no matter what all the bigots and morons say. I belong in this world, and from now on I'm not going to let anyone say different.

Sofia returns with an armload of clothes a little while later and dumps them down next to me. _Take what you like. You can keep them as long as you're here, or longer if you want, I have a lot of clothes. If these shoes don't fit you we can transfigure yours to at least look a bit better._

_Thanks,_ I say, hopping off the bed. _Are you sure though? I don't know how long we'll be here, or where I'm going after, or—_

She waves a hand dismissively. _We all take care of each other here. Do you want to change now?_

_Yes,_ I blurt.

She smiles. It goes up higher on one side than the other. _Here, I'll turn around._

I sort through the pile of clothes, pulling out jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, jumper, and shoes. My own boots and cloak are discarded instantaneously, but the dress gives me pause. My burn still lurks underneath, ferocious and ugly and numb, but for once it's not fear of revealing it that restrains me. _Sofia?_

She'd been doing something to one of the potions, and she sounds distracted when she goes, _Mm?_

_You must heal burns a lot, right?_

_My god, I can't remember the last time there was a day when no one got burned,_ she laughs. _Sorry, that sounded awful. But yes, burns are frequent around here._

_Have you ever treated a, a really old one?_

_Um…_ She pauses thoughtfully. I stay perfectly still, staring at the wall. _Not recently. But when I first started here, there hadn't been a medic for a few years, so there were some old wounds that hadn't been treated properly. Why? Do you have one you want me to look at?_

I toy with the buttons on the front of my dress. I'd once told Madam Pomfrey that I needed to keep the burn, to remember. I hadn't told her why, and probably wouldn't have been able to articulate it if I'd tried. I'd been twelve then, so desperately angry at Mum, my unknown father, the world, that I thought I needed to bear the burn for the rest of my life to make sure I never forgave any of them. I'm not so angry anymore, and growing up a bit has made me think that maybe my body should reflect an accumulation of experiences, of joys, not abuses and painful lessons. But to be without my burn… _Maybe later,_ I say, equal parts relieved and ashamed.

I change quickly into the jeans, shirt, and jumper. Her shoes even fit me tolerably well, though the rest of it is a bit loose. Sofia's curvier than me, so the trousers have to be pretty severely shrunk. But it's still loads better than my awful formal gear, and I thank her sincerely as I head back out to find Charlie.

He's up in the large main chamber, seated at the table with two steaming mugs before him. The sleeping dragon in the corner is still dribbling smoke from its nostrils, but otherwise the space is empty. I hesitate nervously at the top of the stairs, but Charlie sees me and waves me over. "Sofia's patched you up?" he asks as I sit down across from him. He slides me one of the mugs, and I inhale the scent of mulled cider.

"As much as I can be, I think," I say, flexing my hand. "Seems like there's not much to be done for the scars though. The first aid Draco did yesterday, something about it made them indelible."

He grimaces. "Sorry. Sofia's a good medic, but none of us care much about the cosmetic aspects of healing. As long as the blood and guts are inside and the skin is closed, we're basically happy."

I quirk a smile. "A very utilitarian view of one's body." But then I sober. "You said we had more to talk about. What did you mean?"

He sighs, looking into his own mug. "News from home has been… hard to come by. The Ministry is aggressively censoring letters going in and out of the country. You've already demonstrated you know more about the political situation than we do, and I'd like to hear more about that. After you've had a rest, if you like. But there are things you probably don't know. You're Muggleborn, right? I remember the coverage of your trial called you… well."

"Legally, that is my status, yes. Why?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Okay… well, even aside from everyone thinking you're dead and now being on the run from Malfoy, that status would make it highly dangerous to return to England. I don't know what your plans are from here, but…"

"Dangerous? How?"

"They've… The Muggleborn Oversight Committee enacted something called the Humane Solution. It's…" He swallows with difficulty and my heart clenches. "They've started Obliviating Muggleborns. Making them forget all about the wizarding world. All about their lives."

My vision goes white at the edges. "That…" I whisper, aghast. "That's…"

"Abominable," Charlie agrees.

"Surely someone's protesting that," I manage, pressing down my rising gorge.

"Yes, of course, but there's nothing unified. Even the resistance has gone underground, and—" He stops, eyeing me narrowly. "You weren't in the Order, were you? Secretly?"

"The Order of the Phoenix? No."

He nods slowly, still examining me. "I did wonder, since you killed… well. What do you know about it?"

I hesitate. "Your uncles were in the first one." That startles him, but I keep going. "It fought You-Know-Who the first time around. As far as I know, they were disbanded after Harry Potter defeated him. Then after the Triwizard Tournament, Bartemius Crouch Junior and some other Death Eaters started impersonating them and staging attacks to make it look like the real Order and Muggleborns in general were instigating trouble. They reconvened at some point, the real one, but I don't know what they actually did. Nothing that helpful to the public, certainly. Though I think they did save me from the Dementor's Kiss, so I appreciate that, even if it meant getting bound to the Malfoys."

"Heh." But his levity is gone before even really manifesting. "You're right, though that's not even the half of it."

"And you're in it?" I ask, though I'm almost sure I know the answer.

It's his turn to hesitate, but at last he nods. "Yes. Lots of my family are, and others besides."

"Is Fleur?"

He blinks. "Yes?"

"I knew she wasn't telling me everything that day," I mutter. "When I see her again, we are going to have words."

Charlie gives me a dubious look. "Right… But so, what do you want to do from here? I can't imagine you've had enough time to formulate a plan."

"Definitely not," I agree fervently. I haven't been able to even think about planning since… well, since Fleur and Bill's wedding, when Viktor and I were deciding to go to Bulgaria together… The words well up before I can moderate them to something less achingly desperate. "I want to tell Viktor I'm alive."

"I thought as much," he says, smiling. I flush. "I know some people in the Dandelion's Resistance. It should be easy to pass word along—"

"No, no way, no."

Charlie stares at me. "Why?"

"The Dandelion's Resistance? The movement he established to commemorate me? You're going to tell them I'm alive? And they're going to keep it quiet enough that Mr Malfoy and the Ministry don't get wind?"

"...Yes, I see your point. But for similar reasons, it won't be safe to just send an owl. I'm sure he's under surveillance of some sort."

"Okay, so what does that leave?"

"Short of Apparating to him and telling him in person, I'm not sure," he says, running a frustrated hand over his hair.

I shake my head. "I would, but I don't even know where he's living these days."

We sit and stare at the fire, stymied. There's something tickling at the back of my mind, something somehow associated both with Fleur's wedding and Mrs Haslet… but they haven't anything in common, so…

"Wait! There is a way! Maybe!" I shout.

Charlie almost tips his cider down his chest. "What? How?" he sputters, wiping his sleeve over his chin.

"At the wedding! It was the Auror, right? Who sent the Patronus to warn us? And Mrs Haslet sent me one when they were kicking all the Muggleborns out of the Ministry! We could do that!"

His eyes light up eagerly. "Yeah! Can you do a Patronus? Is there a way to make it so that other people can't see, if he is being watched?"

"I don't know! But we can try! Yeah, I can do one. With my old wand I could, at any rate. I'll have to practice with this one. But this is it, I'm sure!" Eagerly, I draw my new wand and exclaim, "Expecto Patronum!" Nothing happens. I scowl at the wand and grumble, "Listen, you…" while Charlie laughs good-naturedly.

It takes most of the following day to get the spell to work. I only ever did do it the once, in the maze, but I remember the feeling of it, and try to draw on that. I use memories of Fleur's wedding, of walking with Viktor under the stars and making plans that didn't turn out true. I love you, Nita, he had said, and I need you to know it! I need you to know most truly! After that, the Patronus comes almost easily, a solid-looking form of pure light that trots around me, my fox with the narrow wise face and the bushy tail and the wounded leg, emitting waves of protection and comfort. Charlie and several others, who have been watching on and off all day, cheer wildly. Draco, who has been lurking nervously near me since breakfast, looks genuinely pleased and impressed, but too nervous to applaud with them.

After that, it's a matter of figuring out how to make it carry a message, and how to make it move in such a way that it won't be observed. I make it carry messages downstairs to Sofia, and once we've figured that out, have Charlie be in there with her. But I tell the Patronus to only appear to Sofia when she's alone, so Charlie, under instructions, leaves after a minute or two to see if that instruction will work. And around 4 pm, when all of that has been figured out, I have to figure out what I actually want to tell him.

I stare at my Patronus, scratching my head with the tip of my wand (and probably making my hair stick up everywhere). "Tell him I'm not dead," I say, starting with the obvious. "Tell him where I am, and that I'm safe, for now anyway. Tell him it's better that no one else knows that just yet. …Tell him to come to me," I add softly. What else can I say? Besides endless declarations of love and all that, I think that's all the important stuff. "Right. Only appear to him when he is alone. Don't let anyone else see you. Go as fast as you can. …That's it." My fox dips its head and darts out in a flash of silver-white light.

The others have drawn away towards the fireplace to give me some privacy, but Charlie, Draco, and Sofia come over once they see the Patronus leave. "How long do you reckon it'll take?" Charlie wonders.

I shrug. "There's no way to know. I don't know how fast Patronuses go. I think it's pretty fast, but I don't know where he is anyway, so calculating it isn't even possible." My stomach feels like it's full of jumping frogs, and my hands are sweating. "SHIT!" Everyone looks at me, startled. "I forgot to tell him about the wards! If he tries to Apparate here… oh no, I'm the worst." I cover my face with my hands.

Charlie laughs and claps me on the back. "He'll forgive you, I suspect. Now, I don't think you've had a proper tour yet, have you? Want to see the nursery?"

I look at him quizzically. "Is that what it sounds like? Hordes of baby dragons all in one place?"

He grins. "Yep!"

It's as good as his word. Downstairs again, through Dima's kitchen, and out another door into a huge cavern of a space. One corner is dominated by a hulking mass of green scales that takes me a long moment to comprehend as a huge dragon with its neck and tail coiled around itself. Its breathing is a rumble I can feel in my feet. But the rest of the cavern is full of small shapes, scampering hither and thither, tumbling, clumsily flying on immature wings, squealing, and burping little gouts of flame. Baby dragons. A score of baby dragons. They range in size from the length of my wand to the size of a medium-sized dog, in every colour I can think of, running about playing adorable, savage games. One knot of roughhousing gets a bit out of hand as we stand watching, and the mountainous green dragon stirs and growls at them. The fight breaks up and the participants scatter off in all directions.

"Why are they here though?" I ask, astonished and delighted. "Why aren't they outside? With their mothers?"

"Dragons have a high rate of infant rejection," Charlie explains matter-of-factly. "Sometimes it's because the baby has some kind of deformity, or is just a bit runty, or for no reason we can tell. It's commoner in some breeds than others. If we can get near in time, we try to rescue them and bring them up here. Shale, upstairs, is a dwarf Ukranian Ironbelly. They're supposed to be massive, but he'll never grow any bigger than he is."

"Wow," Is all I can manage to say.

I glance to the side and find Sofia has already scooped up a little blue baby and is showing it to Draco, who looks enchanted. It's the most relaxed and happy I've ever seen him, and I realize I'm pleased to see him that way. He may have done some bad stuff, but no body's their best self as a teenager, and if he stays away from his dad long enough, there's a strong chance he could turn out to be a decent person.

We spend a couple of hours in the nursery, with Sofia supervising. Draco is really taken with the babies, and at a certain point I decide that teasing him is allowed, and entertain myself doing just that. After a while we congregate for dinner, and we meet more of the Sanctuary staff. There are about twenty-five in total, Charlie explains, but there are always some who stay out to supervise 'problem' dragons, whatever that means, and to mind the wards, so there are nineteen people at the table, counting me and Draco. They're an eclectic lot, with no one single language between them, though it seems everyone is at least partially bilingual. Russian seems to be the majority language, followed by German, and then English, with a bunch of others scattered in which are spoken only by pairs or trios of people. I spend the meals doing more listening than eating, thrilling to the sound of so many languages and enjoying the steady throb of anticipation that sits just behind my heart: Viktor is coming. I'm not sure when, but he is.

But evening passes into night and he doesn't appear, and most of the staff wander off to bed. Draco goes as well, saying he's still tired from Apparating so much yesterday. Charlie and Sofia sit up with me though, till nearly eleven, when I finally accept that either he's much further away than I expected, or constantly in company so the Patronous can't appear to him. "Well, tomorrow," I sigh, and bid my companions goodnight, with gratitude again for everything. My room is on the fourth level up the square spiral staircase, and I'm nearly to the second landing when there's a sharp crack of someone Apparating from below, and someone calls, "The Babel Witch, is she still awake?"

Charlie yells my name, but I've already thrown myself at the bannister, nearly toppling straight over in my eagerness to shout, "Viktor!"

He's there, he's there, and he looks up at me and his soft "Nheeta," is the most perfect thing I've ever heard, and the joy and wonder in his face almost breaks my heart all over again. It's a clumsy, wild rush I make back down, around this impossibly long staircase that seems to grow longer the closer I get to the bottom, but he's running across the expanse of floor and he's there when I reach the bottom and I throw myself into his arms and hold him, just hold him as tight as I can. This time I'm never letting go.

"Nheeta, Nheeta, my love, my Nheeta," he whispers against my shoulder. -You died, they said you died, the Dementors, they said… My God, we all thought you were dead—-

-I'm not,- I whisper back. -I never was. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't have a way to tell you—-

-I should never have believed it,- he says. He pulls away from the hug, holds me tightly by the shoulders and looks into my eyes as though making sure he's not dreaming me. His eyes are shadowed hollows now, and his hair and beard are longer and unkempt. The last seven months have not been kind to him either. Sympathy twists through me, but he's still speaking. -I gave up on you, I thought this was finally the thing that would stop you after nothing else ever had and I… I cannot tell you what I felt, Nita, I can't explain how if was, to have my heart ripped out of me, I'm so sorry—-

-That was the worst of it, to know you would feel that way and not be able to say otherwise! I cried when I heard about the Dandelion's Resistance, Viktor, because even though I was trapped and bound, you had kept fighting, you kept on—-

-But I should have known!- he cries. -I should have known you wouldn't succumb so easily, and then we started hearing of the Babel Witch and I wanted it to be you, but hoping hurt so badly… my God, Nita, you're alive…- And he kisses me, kisses me like he still can't believe I'm really here.

When we break apart, I abruptly remember we're still in a public area and glance around, hotly embarrassed. But the hall is empty, Charlie and Sofia and the man who Apparated Viktor here having silently gone off elsewhere to give us some privacy. I'm grateful, but even more embarrassed at the same time, and I wordlessly grab Viktor's hand and pull him up the stairs towards my room.

-Nita, how… why did they not kill you?- he asks as we walk. -Did you escape? You said you 'couldn't' contact anyone all this time… What happened?-

-I didn't escape,- I say, suddenly sweating. I don't want to talk about the binding, I don't want to talk about the pain. It feels like distant history and like it's still happening, both at once. Can it be true that only two days ago Mr Malfoy was forcing me to stab my own hand? My fingers clench reflexively around Viktor's, and he squeezes back, not understanding. -They said… the trial was the important thing, not the execution itself. They needed to make me a figurehead, a representative of the 'evil Muggleborn' out to destroy the wizarding world. Killing me after that would be a waste, since my abilities could still be useful. I think the Order of the Phoenix was involved in saving me, but…- I grind my teeth. For once, I actually want to tell him everything, and the stupid binding is getting in the way. I'm still forbidden from explaining the nature of my service to the Malfoys. Draco countermanding his father's order might make it safe for me to talk about, but there's no way to be sure without risking another heart attack, and he hasn't given that countermand yet anyway. -The rest is… complicated. I'm not able to talk about some of it. I can try…- I bite my lip nervously. -Um… ok. I've been traveling with the Malfoys. But the reason why is the hard thing. Um… There are three levels of bindings. Sweat is the lowest, then tears, then blood. Until the day after my trial, I had never been under a blood binding before.- I stop, waiting with sick anticipation to see whether the implication will be enough to cause a reaction. But the seconds tick by without pain, and by the time I decide I'm safe, Viktor has put two and two together.

He pulls me to a stop, eyes wide. -A blood binding? Nita, those are…-

-Not ethical? Not legal? Not fair?-

-Serious,- he stresses.

-I know,- I say, without flippancy this time. -I know.- He stares at me in dismay. I gently tug his hand. -Come on. We'll think about that later. Tell me about the Dandelion's Resistance. How long did you stay in England after the wedding?-

-Not very long,- he says, reluctantly following my lead. -I was taken to St Mungo's and Aurors came there to take my statement, though they wouldn't say what had happened to you. I didn't learn till later that most of my statement was thrown out for bias, and also because I was unconscious for the part they cared about. But they quoted me in your trial, made it sound like I didn't trust you or… God that infuriated me. And when I went to the paper to set the story straight, they said they wouldn't take it, and the Ministry deported me.-

-You weren't at my trial, were you?- I ask just as we get to my room. I let us in and wave my wand at the lamp hanging from the ceiling to light it. Such simple magic, but still so satisfying. Like when I made tea in the morning in the flat I shared with Rachael, a lifetime ago.

-No. They said we might 'disturb the peace' and barred us.-

-Good,- I say, only registering afterwards how callus that sounds. -I mean, not good. I just mean… I'm glad you didn't see it. It was bad. You probably would have broken the peace and ended up arrested yourself.-

-I don't care,- he growls, face falling into its dearly familiar scowl. I was to kiss every part of it, even though he's angry. Because he's angry. -What they did to you was a mockery of justice. That woman should be hung by her own tendons.- I raise my eyebrows. I've thought similar things of Umbridge over the last seven months, but nothing quite so visceral. Viktor sees my face. -Of course, only after you had done what you wanted to her.-

A smile pulls my lips. -I would lock her in a cell for a week with nothing to do but listen to a kitten with her own voice recite platitudes and dogma.-

He gives me a look. -That sounds specific.-

-It is. I'll tell you later.- I realise then that we're standing together in my room, properly alone for the first time in years. At Fleur's wedding we were always in earshot of the other guests, and we hadn't seen each other in person since his visit at Christmas, a year and a half before that. I bite my lip, suddenly nervous. I know better than to think that his feelings may have changed. If his kiss downstairs didn't convince me, the whole conversation since then has. But so much has happened. We can't simply pick up where we left off seven months ago, making innocent plans for an innocent future. He's the founder of the Dandelion's Resistance, and I'm the Babel Witch, on the run from Mr Malfoy and the Ministry in general. Nothing is simple or innocent anymore. -Viktor…- I say, not sure what should come next.

-I know,- he says quietly, coming from the other side of the room and taking my hand. But it's my scarred hand, and I flinch even though it doesn't hurt anymore. -Oh, sorry, are you alri…- He trails off, lifting my hand into the light and seeing, for the first time, the purple-red marks of the stabbing, and my name half-obliterated by them. His expression flashes through shock, horror, grief, and fury, and ends up, for some reason, ashamed. -I've never been able to protect you,- he rasps, bowing his head. -I either hurt you myself or I'm not even there to know about it until later.-

I pull my hand free of his and lay it on his chest, on his dandelion tattoo. -I never asked you to protect me.- I step close so he has no choice but to meet my eyes. -Sometimes the world is cruel, no matter how we fight it. That's hard, yes. But all I want from you is to be there to love me along the way.- I brace myself, but the next question is surprisingly easy. -Will you do that?-

The unhappiness melts off him and reveals such a rock-steady devotion that my heart thumps unevenly a few times. I had been confident of his answer, but seeing it on his face is something else entirely. -Yes,- he says, putting his hands either side of my face and touching his forehead to mine. -Yes, every day, forever, with everything I am. Yes.-

I feel I could easily cry, but instead I laugh, and twine my arms around his neck and kiss him hard. His hands slide up into my hair and we kiss until we're both breathless and dizzy and laughing. I push his cloak off his shoulders in the middle of it all, and he obliges, deftly unclasping it, but when I pull at the bottom of his jumper as well, he pulls away and looks at me. -Do you mean…?-

I look back at him steadily. -Yeah. I was nervous before… not of doing it, exactly, it was more… I still didn't totally believe you. About forever.-

His face is a study in love and regret, and he leans in and kisses me again, tenderly but still almost sternly, as though showing me how much he means it, how much he always meant it. But then he lets me strip his jumper off, and he helps with mine, and all the rest of it, and we share a night that begins with his lips at my mouth, and at my throat, and the ragged seared edges of my burn, and ends with a pleasure so deep and new and total that there are no words for it, no words but his name in the darkness, first gasped, then moaned, until he joins me and we tumble into bliss together.

The small hours of the morning find us awake, lying silently together as he cards his fingers through my hair. It's long enough now to do that, after three years of not cutting it, though it still fluffs out in all directions. I'm full of peace and satisfaction, and it's making me uneasy.

-Something dreadful's going to happen now,- I grumble.

-What? Why?-

-Because, last time I was this happy, Fleur's wedding was raided, I killed a man, was arrested and sentenced to death or close enough, and then spent months being dragged across Europe helping recruit people to the cause that ruined my life. So yeah, I'm a bit leery of feeling so good.-

He chuckles and kisses my temple. -Nope,- he says. -No more bad things for us. We've had more than our fair share. It's time for things to go well.-

-Right,- I snort.

We lie in silence again, so long that I nearly fall asleep. His hand is still on my hair, but heavy and unmoving, and his breath has gone even in the darkness. -Viktor?- I say it softly, so that if he really is asleep, I won't disturb him.

But, -Hm?- His head turns towards me and he nuzzles inelegantly at my forehead and one of my eyes.

-I'm thinking… there's a woman here, the medic, Sofia. She says she could probably heal my burn scar, if I wanted. I think… I think I'll ask her to. I… I don't want to carry that anymore.-

He rolls up on his side and pulls me into the circle of his arms. -I'm proud of you,- he whispers.

Viktor and I get downstairs in the thick of the breakfast hour the next morning. We get some knowing looks and grins from some of the staff as we come over, which I studiously ignore. The large table is crowded with more people than were even at dinner last night, and the conversation is louder and more cacophonous too. I hear bits of Russian, German, Arabic, English, French, and several others I don't recognise before I've even sorted out where to get food. It turns out the old man from the kitchen, Dima, is serving porridge from a large pot at one end of the table, and there's a kettle floating over a magical flame by a bunch of mugs and tea options. We load up and look around for a spot.

Surprisingly, Charlie and Draco sit across from each other at the end of the table, Charlie talking animatedly but seriously about something while Draco listens. We approach with our bowls of porridge and mugs of tea, and they both look up when we get to them. Draco blinks when he sees Viktor, and Charlie looks charginned to have been found talking so eagerly with a Malfoy, especially since he said he might not forgive this one for having bullied his siblings.

"Morning," I say, taking the spot next to Charlie. "What are you talking about?"

"I asked, er, Mr Weasley how he came to work in this profession," Draco says awkwardly. I can tell he's not used to putting the honourific in front of that particular name. I press down a smile: better not to tease him when he's making the effort of civility.

"But now we can get to business," Charlie says quickly. "Do you know what you want to do next, Nita? Now that Viktor's here?"

I consider the question, feeling myself being pulled in two directions. "I feel like I've got to do something about the Ministry," I say slowly. "I have no idea what, but if it's true they're Obliviating Muggleborns, I can't just let that continue." In the edges of my vision, I notice both Draco and Viktor stiffen in shock. "Especially since they're probably using my crime to justify a lot of what they're doing, right?"

Charlie nods reluctantly. "Yeah. The Humane Solution is part of a larger piece of legislation called The Linese Act."

"Fantastic," I mutter, dropping my spoon in my porridge. Suddenly, I've got no appetite. "But the problem is that even if I knew what to do, I wouldn't be safe doing it. I'd have to publicly reveal that I wasn't killed after the trial, at which point Mr Malfoy can easily show up and command me to stop, if the Ministry doesn't just recapture me first. I need to find a way to break the binding before I can even make a plan."

"That vill be difficult," Viktor says. "I have never heard of a blood binding being severed before. But that doesn't mean it vill be impossible. Ve vill find a vay. And after, you do not haff to make a plan alone. You vill haff us, and ve haff much to help vith. I haff the whole Dandelion's Resistance, remember."

"And you've met lots of the higher ups in most of the Continental governments by now," Draco says unexpectedly. "They know you as the Babel Witch, so you have clout to use there."

"And the Sanctuary's a respected international nonpartisan organization," Charlie adds. "We've got connections all over the place, people will listen if we tell them what happened."

I blink. "Okay…" Suddenly finding myself in the middle of three quite significant networks of power is disorienting. I'm so used to having to solve problems alone that I forgot that not only will other people care about this, they'll want to help. "Okay, well, great. Good. Okay. I—we still have to figure out the binding though."

Charlie nods decisively and stands up. "OI!" he shouts, bonking his empty bowl against the table. The rest of the crowded table looks up at us, and even though Charlie's the one standing, I get a strong feeling of stagefright all of a sudden. "Who's ever heard of a blood binding getting broken?"

Immediately, a hubbub breaks out. The people who don't speak English are asking for and getting translations of the question, and those who did understand are clamoring for more information or calling out legends they heard once about blood bindings or stories their friend's cousin heard or something. And then as the question permeates more language barriers, the noise increases even further. "Vos it voluntary?" a woman calls in accented English.

‹There's the one in the fairy tale where the man gets out of it by asking the fae folk to break it for him,› Dima suggests in Russian.

‹Fae folk aren't real, Dima,› a woman near him says archly.

„It depends on the specifics of the binding, doesn't it?" a man says in German. „If there's a time limit, or a specific thing you're bound to do, it will end on those conditions. Like an Unbreakable Vow."

People begin to speak over each other, and various languages overlap and blur together into a mess even I can't keep up with. I hear smaller conversations split off in different languages as little groups of native speakers try to figure out together what their culture's stories have told them that's true and what's legend, people switch languages, sometimes mid-sentence, and a lot of people are turning to me with questions, having inferred I must be the subject of Charlie's question, and those who know I'm the Babel Witch don't bother with English. Draco leans across the table and asks urgently, "Did that woman just say that you could kill the people you're bound to to get free?" and Sofia has come around the table and put a hand on my shoulder to ask, _Nita, is that what was the matter with your scars yesterday? I didn't know they were to do with a binding or I would have been more careful, I'm so sorry,_ and my heart is beating way too loudly, there haven't been this many people surrounding me and shouting since my trial and there are so many languages that the part of my mind that knows all things truly is spinning and trying to hide and Viktor leans in and touches my wrist and says, -Are you alright?- and it's one language too much, it's one touch too much, it's all just too much and something in my head cracks open and I surge to my feet and scream, |STOP! STOP, EVERYONE STOP!|

Silence in the hall. Confusion, shock, concern, show on the faces around me, all in various proportions. The echoes of my voice bounce faintly in the hall above my head, and as my pulse stops surging quite so hard in my ears, I realize that however I said what I just said, every single person in the room understood me.

"What… what language was that?" Draco asks faintly, breaking the stillness.

‹The only thing I speak is Russian,› Dima says, almost accusingly. ‹That wasn't Russian, but I still knew what you said.›

Even Viktor is staring at me like he's never seen me before, and that is so unsettling that I reach for his hand. "I don't…" I swallow, relieved to be speaking a recognizable language. "I don't know what just happened."

He shakes his head. "I do not either. It vos like… I know I do not know the vords, but I do know the meaning." Several others nod at this description, and I hold his hand harder, unnerved.

"Can you do it again?" Charlie demands.

I bite my lip. Whatever I just did, it clearly disconcerted a lot of people, and if the last few years have taught me anything, it's that nervy crowds can get dangerous, fast. But I have a wand again, and Viktor's here. And Charlie and Sofia wouldn't let anything happen, I don't think. So I draw a deep breath and reach carefully into that deepest part of my mind, the part that hears and understands everything, the place where this new… thing hatched open and leapt out. It's still coiled there, this new thing, like a small dragon I have to figure out how to handle. |I…| I gasp and look around. Everyone is looking at me with identical wide eyes, faces full of discomfort, comprehension, awe. It's like I've spoken the universal symbol for self-ness, the truest personal pronoun in the world. |I don't know what this is. We don't all have a single language in common, but you all understand, right?| Nods, slow and jerky, tell me that yes, whatever the hell is coming out of my mouth, it's comprehensible to everyone. |Does anyone know of anything like this? Has there been anyone who could do this before?| This time the heads shake, and even through my fog of confusion, I know better than to be disappointed. I spent over a year studying at the Euro-Glyph School and no one there had ever heard of a gift like mine. Surely if anyone was to know of strange ur-languages, it would have been someone there. The Sanctuary may be the premier dragon care facility in the world, but magilinguists they are not. |No. Okay. That's okay. I just… I'm just going to switch back now, er…| It's more of a conscious effort to stop speaking this language than it is with others somehow. But English is my first and native language, so using it again is easy. "I've got no bloody idea what that is," I say, feeling breathless and off-kilter.

"It's dead unsettling to listen to," Charlie says, but he sounds excited. "To understand a language that I don't know at all?" He shakes his head, grinning. "Uncanny. What are you going to call it?"

I attempt a smile. "No idea." Conversation has roared back to life along the length of the table, and lots of people are giving me sort of skittish looks. All at once, I long for vivacious Sir Tibby and earnest Regina. Even if they don't know what this new language of mine is either, they would at least have some avenue of investigation to follow, some book to suggest, some questions to ask. But instead I've got a dragon expert I used to have a crush on, a healer who gave me my new wand, a prat who saved my life, and a Quidditch star who loves me.

"Well, as I was about to say before you changed the laws of linguistics as we know them," Charlie says chipperly, "I reckon your best bet for breaking your binding is with my brother Bill. His focus was curse-breaking, but he did all sorts of things in Egypt."

"You mean the Bill who lives in England?"

"That's the one."

"So… how does that help me? You said you couldn't even get a letter through without them tampering with it."

"Well, the truth is I wasn't wholly honest about that earlier. They do tamper with letters and owls, but if you're quick and clever and irregular, they don't always notice if you happen to cross the border on a broomstick on a foggy night."

Hope erupts simultaneously with irritation. "You didn't tell me—?! Oh my god! When can we go? I can't believe you wouldn't tell me that!"

He holds his hands up, grinning broadly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! If that's what you want to do, we can leave just before the next new moon, in a bit more than two weeks. Fair?"

I huff, still irritated, but brimming with gladness at the thought of not only breaking the binding, but going home. "Fair."

A/N

Ok, there's been a lot happening, so as a reminder of where we are with all the languages, dialogue has been marked thus: "English", «French», -Bulgarian-, „German", _Slovene_, ‹Russian›, 'Portuguese', *Gobbledegook*, /the language in the jar in the Department of Mysteries/, |Nita's new language|.

And y'all be glad I have a sensible beta or that sex scene would have been much worse, lol.

E.I signing out