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.

13. Babel Witch

Babel Witch

The two weeks before our departure pass in a blur of activity. I practice more with my new language, figuring out who understands me when I speak it (all humans, so far as I can tell, no matter what languages they speak, but no animals), and trying to teach it to others, which doesn't work at all. Even when they can phonetically reproduce the sounds, there's no meaning in them. Viktor, Draco, Charlie, Sofia, Dima, and loads of others try it, but it won't work for any of them. Something about it is innate to me. On Charlie's suggestion, I try to come up with a name for it, but nothing feels right. 'Babel' is too self-conscious, 'Absolute' is silly, 'Ur' is trying too hard… How am I supposed to name a language when I'm the only one who can speak it? I can't just call it 'Nita-ish'. So I let the issue slide.

I practice with my new wand too, getting a feel for the sort of magic it likes to do, remembering all my favourite spells and relishing the feeling of having a wand again. The fir wand feels different to my applewood one, sort of like putting on a new pair of shoes after wearing an old pair for a long time: it does fit, I just have to get used to it.

There are also preparations to be made for the journey itself. The Sanctuary has enough broomsticks for all of us, and Charlie, Viktor, and Draco all fly well already, but I haven't been on a broom since Flying class during my first year at Hogwarts, and I was a bit rubbish even then. So I spend a lot of time flying out over the Sanctuary with Viktor, learning to handle myself in the air. He's a good teacher, patient with me even when I'm not, and never condescending even though I can see how much he's holding back. Charlie assures us the flight to England will mostly be easy flying, until the last bit which will have to be done in the dark, so I don't have to learn anything fancy.

And even between all that, there's time to see and learn about all the dragons. It's winter, so they're mostly in torpor or semi-hibernating, but Charlie takes us around to several territories throughout the Sanctuary (more flying practice for me), and introduces me to specific dragons he wants me to talk to. In one case he wants me to figure out why a dragon has been off its feed for a few months; in another, why the dragon has hidden her eggs; and he even reintroduces me to the Hungarian Horntail I faced in the Tournament. The eggs she had then have long-since hatched and the babies grown enough to leave the nest, but she spends hours bragging of their beauty and strength and health. She even goes so far as to thank me for removing the "rotten" egg from the clutch. It's fun talking to dragons again, and I feel much safer doing it this time, in part because I've done it before, and in part because practically every human occupant of the Sanctuary wants to watch me, so I know that if anything goes wrong, I'll be very well protected. Draco is fascinated with everything related to dragons, and spends a lot of time in the nursery or with Sofia's ash-wyrms, which are the little lizard-looking things I noticed before.

But the two weeks pass and all at once it's nearly time to go. I've been putting off visiting Sofia, though I can't really explain why, so it's the evening before our departure when I go up to her after dinner and whisper, even though no one else would understand the Slovene, _Do you remember when I asked about healing old burns?_ Her expression sharpens and she nods. _Could we go to the medical room?_ She nods again and we leave the bustle and warmth of the large room with its fireplace, down through Dima's kitchen and the pokey corridor to her ward. _Could you just… not ask how I got it?_ I ask, suddenly gripped by nerves. I like Sofia fine, but I don't trust her the way I trust Viktor, and explaining everything about Mum is just a bit too far for my comfort. _It… It was an accident._

_Of course,_ she says. _Of course. Where is it though?_

Hesitating one last time, I pull off my jumper and top. She sucks a sharp breath in, and I wince, unable to raise my eyes to look at her. Gooseflesh prickles my arms and back, and the chill air bites my burn.

_It looks old,_ she says, gently touching the tip of her wand to it. It's hard not to flinch away.

_It is,_ I admit. _I was eight. Almost thirteen years ago._

She shakes her head, though her face is turned from me so I can't tell what she's thinking.

_Can you… can you heal it?_ I ask, desperate in the lengthening silence.

She stands up straight and swipes a hand across her eyes. Was she crying? For me? _Yes,_ she says firmly. _I can._

It takes such a short time that I'm almost disappointed. She drags out the huge drum of burn ointment and smears it all over my chest, even off the edges of the burn. It's cold and slimy and smells bad. Then she stands a few steps away and says four sharp words while her wand expels yellow mist. The mist drifts over to me and settles over the ointment. My whole chest tickles and prickles for about five seconds, and then the mist dissipates, to reveal that the ointment is gone, and so is the burn. The burn is gone. My skin is clean and unblemished. I have real skin on my chest. Was it that easy all along? Could I have had Madam Pomfrey do that the second I got to Hogwarts, and not gone through all these years with the constand pinch and pull, the twinge and phantom pain of dead nerves and insensate scar tissue? But could I have let go of my resentment of Mum if I'd got rid of the burn? Or would it have gone inward, and festered?

I touch the new skin on my stomach with one finger. The sensation—it's a sensation, I can feel it, I can feel my finger against my skin!—makes me tremble, and almost makes me cry.

_It will be easy to over-stimulate the newly healed area for a few days,_ Sofia is saying, bustling around putting the huge bin of burn ointment back away, sheathing her wand again, checking on her ash-wyrmes. _But you don't need to do anything special to treat it. It's just skin._

It's just skin. Yes. But it's not a burn. _Thank you,_ I say. I can't ever mean it enough.

The following morning, we dress in thick cloaks, gloves, several layers of jumpers, and hats. It's still March, and winter has not abated. Dima packs us panniers of food and other useful items, Sofia teaches me some charms against frostbite and windburn (Charlie, Viktor, and Draco, experienced flyers, already know them), and we mount up and rise into the cold, clear sky. The sensation of cold on my chest, cold without accompanying pain, is novel, but quickly gets old.

As Charlie promised, the flying itself is mostly easy, and the winds cooperate as well, which is good. It's a journey of three days, and if all goes well, we'll cross the Channel on the night of the new moon and be at Bill and Fleur's house by that morning. But that means three days of tedious flying over the Continent, and my three companions are quickly bored and start to make up games to entertain themselves. Lots of them seem to be 'last one to catch up to those geese (or rockstand or whatever is nearby) is a rotten dragon egg' so I'm left on my own, grimly gripping my broomstick and focusing on staying upright. Muggles knew to put handlebars on bicycles to help with their centre of balance for god's sake, would it have killed wizards to do the same?

We camp in empty fields at night, and since we have warm clothes, warm food, and no one's chasing us, it's actually pretty nice. Charlie seems to have given up holding a grudge against Draco, who has been ceaselessly humble, even at times he trips up and says something stupid. And I don't think his curiosity about dragons hurt Charlie's opinion either. So the journey is sedate, right up until we get to the coast of Belgium and set up to wait for nightfall and the new moon.

"With any luck," Charlie says, staring out over the water with his arms crossed, "we'll have cloud cover as well." We all peer up at the clear sky, equally hopeful and sceptical. "But even if not, we have to fly close, and low, and as unobtrusively as possible. I know how tempting it will be to have a light, but we mustn't. The wards are mostly to detect people leaving, not coming in, so that helps, but the less magic we use, the better. We can go slow for most of it though. Nita, you'd better stick with Viktor, and Draco, you follow me. You've had night flight training, Viktor?" Viktor nods. "Good. Then let's eat something and rest until it gets dark."

We do eat, but we're all too nervous to rest much, except Charlie. I end up just sitting on the shore, staring blankly at the water, til Viktor comes to sit next to me. -It'll be okay, you know.-

-You know what happened last time I was home,- I say uneasily. -The prison, the trial, the binding. What if we're caught? The public thinks I killed the Minister and the Death Eaters think I kidnapped Draco. No one's going to have a very warm reception for me.-

-Fleur and Bill will,- he reassures me. -They're your friends. You can count on them.-

I lean in and rest my head on his shoulder. -I know. I think that's the hardest thing.-

Night falls all at once, and as Charlie had hoped, a dense cloudfront rolls in and covers the glimmering of the stars. We mount up and glide slowly out over the water, only about ten feet up. Charlie has explained that Bill and Fleur live in Cornwall, so the plan is to fly the length of the Channel outside the reach of England's wards and out of sight of both coasts before veering north and crossing the wards as near to their home as possible. He's done it before, he says, and it's the safest way.

So we spend hours skimming over the dark water. There are no hijinks now, no races or games. We fly silently, in a rough diamond with Charlie in the lead and Viktor bringing up the rear. The air is frigid and my cheeks and nose are quickly numb, and I try to tell myself that the pounding of my heart is because I'm scared of falling into the water. But I've never been a good liar, especially to myself.

After an eternity of darkness and rushing air, Charlie signals for us to veer north, and I bite my lip hard as we make the turn. Twenty minutes later, the sensation of pins and needles goes through my whole body, and I know we've passed the wards. I let out a shuddering sigh of relief. Even in the darkness, I can tell Viktor's smiling at me.

Dawn is starting to break on our right hand side as we near Cornwall's northern coast, and we dip down to fly even closer to the ground. The soil turns sandy and the grass turns to beach scrub, and soon after we crest a dune and find ourselves at the water again. There aren't any houses in sight, but Charlie has us land in a lee between two dunes. It's painful in the best way to stand up straight and stretch again, and we use some of Sofia's charms to warm up our stiff fingers and cold faces. I try to wrap my head around the idea that I'm back in England: home again, even if we're not quite safe yet.

"Okay. I'll have to go in and explain to Bill. Do any of you know what the Fidelius Charm is?" Viktor and I shake our heads, but Draco nods. "Right, you explain to them while I'm gone. I shouldn't be long," he says, and jogs away. Obedient to his instructions, Draco tells me and Viktor about the magic that hides houses and how the Secret Keeper is the only one who can let someone see where it is. We hypothesize that Bill must be the Secret Keeper, if Charlie has gone to explain to him. But even as we reach that conclusion, we hear shouting from the direction Charlie went, and we all stand up and draw our wands nervously. But the shouting person sounds like Fleur, and what she's shouting is, "Nita! Nita!"

The sound of a friendly voice calling my name washes away all the lingering anxiety, and I let out a glad shout and scramble up the dune, flinging sand everywhere. Fleur, Charlie, and Bill are all hurrying down a nearby slope towards me, Charlie pointing in my direction. Fleur and Bill are in dressing gowns and pyjamas, but Fleur's face is wide open with hope, and when she sees me it transforms into such brilliant happiness I would almost be embarrassed if I weren't feeling the exact same thing. We both rush downhill and meet at the bottom for a hug more full of sand and giddy shouting than anything, but between my «I'm so glad you're okay!» and her «I thought they killed you!» and my «They were going to, I can't explain why they didn't—» and her "Beel, allow 'er eento ze house at vonce—" and her wiping tears of happy laughter off her face, we communicate all we need to.

Bill just looks plain amazed when I finally focus on him, rubbing a hand over his head next to the beaming Charlie. "Blimey," is all he says. "You're alive, eh?"

"Far as I can tell," I reply, grinning.

"Veektor!" Fleur cries, and hurries up the dune I'd just careened down.

I turn and see Viktor standing at the top of it, squinting against the strengthening dawn, Draco straggling up next to him. Behind me, I hear Bill make a noise of anger, or surprise. "Isn't that the Malfoy heir?" he demands. "What's he doing here? Charlie, get your wand out!"

"Woah, woah!" Charlie cries, and I look back anxiously at the brothers' confrontation. Charlie's put one hand on Bill's chest, the other holding his wand hand down. "I know, Bill, I know. Malfoys: bad. But Draco? Maybe not as bad. He helped Nita escape, and he wants to help her more. He's lived with us at the Sanctuary for nearly three weeks. He had plenty of chances to contact his father or anyone else. I really think he's alright."

"He's the git who bullied Ron and Ginny," Bill snaps, expression twisting angrily around his scars.

"I know," Charlie says, and glances at me. "Hermione and Harry too. And if he works hard to earn it, and they decide to, they might forgive him for it."

Bill gives us both a suspicious look, but slowly nods. "Fine. But I might not."

I fight a smile. They really are brothers, these two.

Viktor seems to have made the introductions between Fleur and Draco in the meantime, and the three of them make their way down the dune. "Right…" Bill says uncertainly when we're all in a group. He glances conspicuously at Draco, who shifts his weight nervously. "Welcome to Shell Cottage then." Viktor, Draco, and I look around quizzically, and I'm the first to spot that the hill Charlie had brought Bill and Fleur from now boasts a neat little house at its crest. "Tea?" Bill suggests, and we all eagerly accept.

The inside of the cottage is somehow both snug and breezy, with furniture made partly from driftwood and doorknobs made from seastars and shells. We all gather in the sitting room and settle in mismatched chairs while Charlie and Fleur magic together the teatray in the kitchen next door. Viktor and I sit together on a loveseat, and Draco takes a rather tottery chair next to me. Bill settles in an armchair across from us and steeples his fingers under his chin. "Right," he finally says. "Here's what I know: on the night of my wedding, one of my wife's bridesmaids, Miss Nita Linese, kidnaps Mr Crouch, the Minister for Magic, and kills him at her flat in Diagon Alley. She's arrested that night and a week later is tried and convicted for her crime. She's killed by Dementor's Kiss the following day. Then, eight months later, she turns up at my house with Viktor Krum, Draco Malfoy, and my brother, having somehow ended up in Romania." He stares at me hard enough to make the hair on my neck stand up. But at last, he breaks into a wide, sardonic smile. "You'll understand that I'd like to know a bit more than that."

My smile is limp with relief, but sincere. "I understand." Charlie and Fleur come in with the tea just then, and there's a period of clatter and bustle while everyone's served and gets settled again. But then everyone's looking at me. I take a deep breath. "Well… You're right on one thing, Bill. I was Fleur's bridesmaid." This earns a few chuckles, but there's no good done in trying to put off the inevitable. "I didn't kidnap Mr Crouch though. And he wasn't Mr Crouch, at least not the one you think he was." It's a tale of nearly an hour, one that Draco periodically has to take over when the binding prohibits me from explaining something clearly, and Viktor explains the things he was hearing about the Babel Witch before my Patronus showed up to tell him I was alive. "…and so we spent two weeks with Charlie at the Sanctuary. I discovered a new language, and we learned loads about dragons, and then we flew here. On brooms, not dragons. And now… we're here. And if you know of any ways to break a blood binding, I am all ears."

Bill, Fleur, Charlie, and even Draco are all staring at me, and I realize that I hadn't fully explained everything I had done with the Malfoys to Charlie, nor the full scope of the Death Eater's political deception to Draco. And for Bill and Fleur, this is all new.

"So…" Bill eventually says. "Someone in the Order helped make sure you weren't executed?"

I nod. "Yes. Maybe more than one person, but definitely the Auror who sent the Patronous to your wedding to warn everyone. I don't think he knew what Mr Malfoy's plans were, but anything is better than a Dementor's Kiss."

"Kingsley," he murmurs. "Why wouldn't he say…?"

"For safety," Fleur says. "Ze fewer people 'o know she ees alive, ze fewer people 'o can endanger 'er."

"I was doing enough of that on my own," I mumble. Viktor takes my hand in his, my scarred hand, and squeezes gently.

"And this blood binding they performed," Bill says, setting his long-since cold cup of tea aside. "You said they used one of those blood quill things? The same ones that woman gave detentions to Fred and George and the others with?"

I shake my head to show ignorance, but Draco says, "Yes. They hadn't been used for centuries before she brought them to Hogwarts."

Bill is nodding slowly. "And he didn't warn you what it was? When you signed?" I shake my head, in negation this time. "And it's an obedience oath… What happens if you disobey?" I describe the pains I get in my chest, like a band of iron tightening around my ribs, and how when I resist for too long it becomes a stabbing sort of pain in my heart. I describe the time I fainted in Portugal when I thought Draco had given enough permission to talk to that man. Bill is starting blindly at me, but I can nearly see the thoughts whipping past his eyes. I stop talking, hoping that all of it will add up to something useful and he'll know what to do now to get me free. At length, he sighs and comes back to reality. "The problem with blood bindings is that they're linked to the life of the person who's bound. There's no proven way to break the binding without killing at least the bindee. There are legends, but nothing that stands to reason, or the actual rules of blood bindings." The bubble of hope I'd been carefully tending bursts into shreds of nothingness. "But there may be ways to… circumvent it. You would still be bound, in the technical sense, but you might not have to follow their orders anymore. Your case is a strange one, even by blood binding standards, so understand that I'm not positive about any of this. And it's not even my area."

"Okay, fine, I take responsibility for anything we try," I say impatiently. "No one's going to sue you or whatever. Just help me get rid of this thing."

Bill laughs, a loud, startled sound. "Sorry, I should have realized how eager you would be. If I tell you there's certainly nothing to be done at this moment, would you agree to have some breakfast?" I blink, realising that I am hungry, but more disappointed that we can't start on the binding right now. Still, I nod, and there's a general shuffle towards the kitchen, where Fleur and Bill start magicking things out of the cupboards and pantry til all at once, it seems, there's eggs, bacon, toast, fried tomatoes, porridge, and more tea set out at the table, and we all tuck in. But Bill doesn't seem the sort to let a question lie once he's started thinking about it, and before he's even finished serving himself, he's saying, "The most straightforward option, of course, would just be to get rid of the people you're bound to." Draco puts his silverware down rather sharply and looks at him with wide eyes. "I'm not suggesting that," Bill says, though the look he gives Draco says he might be persuaded to. "I'm just making sure we have all our options in front of us."

"What if we got our hands on the binding document?" Charlie suggests around a mouthful of eggs. "And burned it or something?"

"She'd die," Bill says shortly, still distracted by his own thoughts. I set down the bite of fried tomato I'd been about to take. "Other than that…" He taps his fork thoughtfully against his plate for a moment. "I don't suppose you're soulbound to anyone?"

"Er… not to my knowledge." Soul-bound? How would that even work?

"You'd know," Bill says wryly, and goes back to tapping his fork. Then he glances between me and Viktor. "You two aren't married, are you?" We both shake our heads, I more vehemently than I mean to because I'm startled. I blush and glance at Viktor, who, I'm glad to see, looks a bit hot under the collar as well. Bill shrugs. "It's worth asking. Are you under any sort of inheritance stipulation from your parents or anything?"

"Um… you mean biological parents, or…? Well, either way, I don't know what that is, so no."

But Bill's eyes have lit up. "Were you adopted?"

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the topic. "Not formally. Not legally."

"Oh." He slumps disappointedly.

But his questions have made me think of one of my own. "Does the Ministry still tamper with mail if it's just going somewhere else in the country?"

Bill blinks at me, clearly coming back from quite an intellectual distance. "Depends," he says. "Some people are under surveillance for being related to Blood Traitors or Muggleborns, but if the Ministry trusts your blood status, they generally leave you alone. Who were you thinking?"

"Bigby, the tattooist in Diagon Alley. Or his wife, Madam Malkin. Or my friend Rachael Percival."

Bill frowns. "The Percivals are quite high up in the Old Guard."

"Not Rachael. She's the one who did that display at Madam Malkin's that got it ransacked, did you hear about that? I trust her."

Bill, Charlie, and Fleur all exchange looks. "It might be possible…" Bill says slowly. "If your friend is a Percival. And I believe Madam Malkin still lives in the Alley. I don't know anything about the tattooist though. And you also need to think about your own safety, Nita. Are you sure you want people—even people you know and trust—knowing you're alive before we figure out how to get rid of the binding? Once information is given, it can't be taken back."

"They would never betray me," I say hotly. "Bigby especially."

"Okay, I believe you. But letters go astray. If you do decide to tell them, you need to be clever."

I nod reluctantly. Cleverness isn't exactly my strong suit—if there's a direct way to do something, that's what I prefer—but months of winnowing my way between technicalities in Mr Malfoy's commands has given me a slightly firmer grasp on the concept. I take a deep breath. "The binding then. Do you have something that could work? Since I'm not adopted, married, or soulbound?"

He hesitates, and my pulse quickens. "It's not… something I've heard of before. It's put together pieces of other things, things which I've heard worked, either in legends or rumors or things that work in curse-breaking. If it works, it'll be very lucky. I don't want to get your hopes up."

"Well you're not not doing that right now!" I exclaim. "Come on, out with it!"

He smiles apologetically. "Sorry. Here: I figure that since the binding itself isn't the problem, just the obedience aspect, and since you're bound to 'the Malfoys' generally, not a specific one, something that might work is rather than trying to lift the binding, to make it more specific instead. So this would take two steps, and you're not going to like the first one. And then I don't think Malfoy's going to like the second." In my peripheral vision, I see Draco sit up a bit straighter and glance between me and Bill. "First of all, we have to make the binding think that you're bound to a specific Malfoy, in this case Draco. So he would be the only one who could give you commands. And then the second step," he says implacably as I begin to protest, "would be a, a sort of adoption." Draco and I both freeze. "Not that one of you would be the other's parent or anything. You would be more like, well, siblings. If we do it right, it'll sort of lock the binding between you, and nullify it since you'd both be Malfoys and not Malfoys at the same time."

I understand his reluctance now. No way will Draco ever agree to this. Being a Malfoy is too much a part of who he is, it's too deep in his identity to give up for my sake. And this was Bill's last, best idea…

"How do we do it?" Draco says, and then flushes bright red when the rest of us turn and stare at him, each of us somewhere between surprised and gobsmacked.

"You heard me say that you would be taking on effectively a new family, right?" Bill says suspiciously. "Not exclusively a Malfoy anymore?"

Draco swallows and nods determinedly. "Yes. I've lived my whole life being proud of my family's accomplishments. But I can't only be proud of the good things while not taking responsibility for the bad things too." He turns to me, grey eyes downcast. He looks, strangely, both miserable and relieved. "My father, my family… I have done awful things to you. It's right that I atone. If I can help break the binding, I want to."

I'm too stunned to answer. In fact, no one seems to know what to say. But Viktor reaches around me and puts a hand on Draco's shoulder, and that seems to be enough. Draco nods once and looks back at Bill. "So how do we do it?"

In the end it's almost too simple. It would be best if we had the original document, but since we don't, Draco writes up an Official Binding Amendment stating that actually he is the only Malfoy I have to obey, and I sign it. Because it's a normal quill, not a blood quill, I have to prick my thumb for the blood, and for a moment the sight of the little pocket knife next to my thumb makes me dizzy and short of breath. I won't do it, you can't make me hurt myself, not again, no— But I force myself back to reality, and draw the knife over my skin barely hard enough to cut it. The small beads of blood are enough to make a blotty thumbprint over my name, and then Charlie is there, casting a healing charm and pressing a glass of water into my hands. Viktor has his hand on my back and doesn't take it away til I'm breathing evenly again. Meanwhile, Draco and Bill have both signed it as witnesses, like Mr Malfoy and Snape did on the original one. I'm not sure of the purpose of that—none of my non-disclosure bindings needed witnesses—but it was done the first time, so we figured we should do it this time as well.

"Good," Bill says. "Step one: complete. Do you want to take a rest before step two?" He looks at me, clearly concerned by my apparently extreme reaction to the little cut on my thumb.

I shake my head adamantly. "No. I want to be done."

Unfortunately for me, the adoption ceremony requires more blood. This time I make Fleur do it, and she reluctantly makes a shallow slice across the mound of my thumb, and then the same for Draco. The pain is not as bad, I tell myself desperately. It is endurable, it is not the same, I am safe, I am safe…

Bill has Draco and me stand face to face in the sitting room and clasp hands like we're going to armwrestle. The minor pressure of his hand against the open cut on my palm makes my eyes water, and he winced as well. Our blood mixes between our hands and runs red down our elbows and inside my head I'm chanting, I'm safe, I'm safe, I'm safe, I'm safe…

"By these hands held," Bill intones, standing beside us with his wand held out over our hands, "by this blood let, by the magic you both bear, by the witnesses watching here, do you hereby accept and avow to uphold the bonds of family duty and fealty? Do you accept and avow that the bonds between you shall be without rancor or envy? Do you accept and avow you will never impede one another's freedoms in any way?"

It's a bit rough and homegrown, this vow, apparently half an adaptation of an old adoption ceremony for when a great leader had no biological heirs, and half invented for this particular situation, which, Bill told us confidently, is unique in all of magical history. But it's the best shot we've got, so first I say, "I do so accept and avow," and then Draco says it too, and Bill does something that makes a shimmering ribbon of light fly out of his wand and wind around our hands, and slowly sink into our skin.

"Okay," Bill says after a moment, breaking the tension. "You can stop bleeding on the floor now." It's hardly funny, but almost everyone laughs. Draco and I peel our hands apart and I can't even look at mine till Charlie cleans it up and heals it again.

Then I take stock of myself. Do I feel different? The binding's not technically gone, after all, just made dormant by Draco and I adopting each other—and what a sodding strange notion that is!—so the only way to tell if it's worked is… "Quick, tell me to do something!" I tell Draco.

He jerks away, still rubbing his hand. "What?"

"Anything!" I urge. "Tell me… tell me to walk outside!"

"Er…" He glances nervously around. "Walk… walk outside, Nita."

I wait, heart pounding harder and harder as the seconds tick by and no band of iron pressure grips my chest, no knife of pain forms in my heart. It's worked. It's gone. "No!" I shout euphorically. "No, I shan't! I'll never obey you again! Hah!" I'm bursting with joy and energy and I can't figure out who I want to hug first so I just end up spinning in a circle and squealing.

"What are you going to do now?" Charlie asks when I finally settle down. His grin fills his whole face and I can't help but return it.

"I reckon I'd better bring down the Ministry, eh?"

Some raised eyebrows meet this proclamation, but some grins as well. "And how do you intend to do that?" Bill asks.

"No idea yet," I admit easily. I point to him and Fleur. "But you're in the Order of the Phoenix, Charlie's got the Sanctuary behind him, and Viktor founded the Dandelion's Resistance. We can come up with something together. Plus, I'm alive. That fact alone is going to cause problems for them. I reckon that's the first thing, just telling everyone everything to undermine the Ministry that way. If enough people know the truth, they won't stand for it anymore."

"You should tell other governments too," Draco says, and ducks his head when people turn to look at him. "You know what my father is telling them all. And they know you: you're famous as the Babel Witch now. If you tell them what's really been going on, they'll believe you, and they'll help."

I nod slowly, trying to get a grip on the idea that I, Nita Linese, have the authority to change the official governmental stance of most of Europe.

"But she could not travel safely," Viktor says, frowning. "Even vithout the blood binding, as soon as your Ministry heard of vhat she vas doing, they vould send people to capture or even kill her." He looks at me. "I could not tolerate you being in that kind of danger."

"Letters won't be the same though," Draco argues. "Anyone can write a letter. Does your language power mean you can write in those languages?" he asks. I shake my head regretfully. "So she's got to talk to them."

"Oh!" I exclaim. "There is a way! There's still problems, but listen: you know Howlers?" Bill, Charlie, and Draco all nod emphatically while Fleur and Viktor give us Brits bemused looks. "They're letters that capture voices rather than written words. We could do something like that! Only more durable because a letter is still easy to destroy. When I worked in the Deparghh—" My tongue and throat stop up and I clutch at my neck in panic before I remember what's going on. I release the intention to say what I had planned to, and my mouth relaxes. Taking in the faces of my companions—shocked, panicked, dismayed—I have to laugh. "I forgot I'm still under other bindings!"

Bill is the first to laugh in response. "Thank Merlin! I was afraid I'd cocked up the counterbinding."

"So your idea is to send Howlers to all the governments of the Continent?" Draco says uncertainly. "Howlers are not generally welcomed, you know."

"Yes, I've heard them in the Great Hall before. But it wouldn't be an actual Howler, that's just the closest I can explain it. Hmm… could I say things as questions…? 'What if we used something like aagghh.' Shit. 'Something more durable than paper?' Ok… 'What if each time they opened this object the message would repggghh.' Damnit." I think for a moment. The keen attention of my companions is like heat on my skin, and I expect to feel embarrassed by it, but I don't. I'm also curious if I can figure this out, after all. "Well, here: Muggles have a technology that lets them record voices or any sound, really, and play it back whenever they want."

"Like a record player," Charlie suggests.

"Uh, yes, sure." I'd been thinking of CDs, but if they understand records then that's fine. "The point is, they can listen to something repeatedly. There must be a way for us to do something similar." The binding allows this, thankfully.

"And you've seen an object like this before, but you're not allowed to explain about it," Bill says.

"Right."

"That's annoying," Charlie complains.

"You've got no idea."

"Well," Fleur says, tapping her chin. "We know enough to start guessing, yes? Somesing more durable zan paper, but small so zat we can send it, yes? So perhaps a small box? Somesing zat looks innocent. But somesing we would reasonably want to send many of…"

"Are you going to have to do each one individually?" Bill asks suddenly. "If you have to explain everything you told us in a dozen different languages, that's going to take ages."

Charlie, Draco, and Viktor all protest before I can, and I smile at their confused and overlapping explanations. "—never heard anything like it!" Charlie cries. "—strangest thing, and none of us can speak it!" Draco sounds put out. "—can translate anything, but it doesn't make anyone able to understand anyone else if they use another language," Viktor says to Fleur.

"Okay, wait, wait." Bill puts his hands up. "Nita, explain please. It sounds like they're saying you can make someone understand any language you want."

"Well, no, that's not it. I can learn to speak any language I want, so long as I can hear someone else speak it first, but the useful thing is that I discovered a new language while we were at the Sanctuary. And anyone is able to understand that, no matter what languages they may know. Well, so far that's been true. It might not work on everyone."

"It vill," Viktor says stoutly. I smile at him, pleased.

"Can you say somesing in eet?" Fleur asks curiously.

"Oh, er, sure. It sounds dead weird, fair warning." She nods, looking eager. I take a breath and reach deep into my mind. |I don't know what to call it yet. Nothing seems right, either too serious or flippant. I think the problem is I don't know how this works. People have tried reproducing the sounds, but it comes out as gibberish. But how can universal intelligibility be unique to me? I don't understand.| Bill and Fleur are staring at me, Bill touching his ear as though making sure it's still attached right-way up. Fleur looks astonished and delighted. "So if I use that language to make these Howler things, then we don't have to worry about which country we send them to, because anyone who opens it will understand what I'm saying. So we can make them all at once in one go."

Bill nods slowly. "Okay… Okay, yeah." He shakes his head. "But that still leaves the question of once the rest of the world knows what's happening, what are we asking them to do about it?"

"...Right."

"And once we've made these Howler things, how do we get them out of the country? Getting out is harder than getting in, I'm sure Charlie told you, especially if you're carrying a whole lot of magical stuff with you. Plus, everyone in the Order is either under surveillance or otherwise occupied with Order business."

"I don't know," I huff. "I just got back in the country this morning. I'm still not really clear on the situation here."

Bill smiles sheepishly while Charlie and Fleur chuckle at his expense. "Sorry. This is all just really exciting. I've been wanting something like this to happen for so long, so now that it finally looks possible, I want it all to happen right now."

I relent. "I know the feeling. And I'm sure we'll figure it out. But… we've got to be clever."

He smiles again to hear his own words returned to him. "Alright, you win. What now?"

"...Lunch?" Charlie says hopefully.

Bill and Fleur laugh. "Spoken like a true Weasley." Bill tousels his brother's hair affectionately and something about it makes me dart a look at Draco. He's watching them with a frown, but the sort that comes from understanding something new and uncomfortable. Lunch is prepared and eaten, and Bill and Fleur take care of the washing up while Charlie and Viktor go back over the dunes to collect the brooms we'd left there. That leaves Draco and me, and I suddenly feel intensely awkward.

"Do you...want to go see the shore?" he asks, clearly just as uncomfortable as me. I agree, and we go outside and down the long slope of sand towards the water without talking or looking at each other. The sun is warm and soothing, and the surf seems to be playing games of chase and retreat with itself. It hits me all over again that I'm home, I'm safe, I'm free. The relief is palpable. Except home is the Alley, I'm only safe so long as no one knows I'm here, and free is relative when I can't leave the protection of Fleur and Bill's property without risking arrest again, or worse. There is still work to be done.

"So… are we… siblings now?" Draco asks abruptly, every word of the question acute with discomfort.

I draw a deep breath. "I don't know. I don't know what it's like to have siblings. I'm an only child."

"I am too," he says.

We stand in silence for a while.

"Although… if we are siblings, that would make you my little brother, wouldn't it?" I can't help the grin that's creeping across my face. He stiffens, knowing him out of affronted pride. "And based on the example of the Weasley men inside, that means I get to do this." And I reach up and ruffle his white blond hair, fluffing the strands till they're almost as wild as mine.

"Oi!" he shouts, stumbling away from me. "I don't care how much older than me you are, I am not basing any sibling relationship I have on any of the Weasleys!"

I just laugh. He subsides when I don't pursue him or harass him further, and returns to stand next to me. "Um… would you…." I look up and find him rubbing the back of his neck, eyes averted. "Would you explain about your parents? Now that we're… family? I've been really curious, but I didn't want to make you tell me."

I consider. He has been quite amazingly good at not commanding me to do things, always phrasing things as requests or statements rather than direct orders. And we are family of some nebulous sort now, bizarre though that is. And after everything he's been through, he should understand pretty well now that the actions of one's parents don't necessarily reflect on the child. I sigh. "I never lied to you about them. My mother is a Muggle. Her name is Mary. She lives in London, or at least she did last I knew. She had a grudge against magic, you see, so when Professor McGonagall came with my first letter and explained about Hogwarts, Mum said that if I went to school I couldn't ever go back home. So I haven't seen her since I was eleven." Draco's silence is rigid with shock. "She was… cruel."My hand rises of its own accord to touch my chest, feel the soft new skin that's not a burn anymore. "I don't miss her. I think I understand now that a lot of her cruelty was born out of pain she couldn't resolve, but that doesn't make it okay. And then I never met my father until I was seventeen. Did you ever hear the rumors that Ludo Bagman would go out to Muggle pubs after he won games and pick up women?"

"...Ludo Bagman is your father?" he exclaims.

A bitter little smile twists my lips. "Unfortunately. I met him the night I was chosen as Hogwarts' Triwizard champion, and he recognized me, by my surname and my appearance. I got his hair." I lift a hank off my shoulder and twist it between my fingers. "I had no idea. I just thought he was a weirdo. McGonagall figured it out first, and told me the night of the last task. He and I both said we wanted nothing to do with each other, and life went on. But he had debts, bad ones, to the goblins no less, and so he popped up a couple years back to beg me for money. When I turned him down, he reported me as a Muggleborn and I lost my job. I think he's worked at the Ministry since then."

The wind whisks through my hair, and riffles my shirt against my skin. The sensation is still so strange. It's brisk and chilly, but feels right. I wonder what Draco's thinking. Whatever else Mr Malfoy was, he seemed to honestly want the best for his son, and I assume Mrs Malfoy is the same. They've probably been beside themselves over their poor boy, kidnapped by the savage Mudblood. How can a child raised by such parents feel about a story like mine?

"You said…" He has to clear his throat. "You said you were adopted? Sort of? I remember we saw you at the Leaky Cauldron once, and people thought you were related to Madam Malkin and the tattooist. And you mentioned Madam Malkin inside earlier..."

My smile is much more genuine this time. "Madam Malkin did take care of me quite a bit over the years. I… lived in the Alley during summers, since I couldn't go home, and Bigby, that's the tattooist, yes, was the one who mainly took me in. And Tom let me work at the pub. And lots of shopkeepers let me do jobs they could have easily done by magic. The whole Alley's my home, and they're all sort of family, but Bigby and Madam Malkin… yeah, they're my parents. They've offered to make it official several times, but at first there wasn't really a point since I was already of-age, and when things got more serious, a legal adoption wouldn't have solved anything. It wouldn't have changed my blood status. But they are family."

He doesn't seem to know what to say to that, and I don't blame him. Laying it all out so plainly makes it very melodramatic and rather embarrassing.

"For me…" Draco finally says, and it sounds like his words are coming from a very deep place inside of him, "family has always been about blood. It wasn't a matter of choice. Even marriage is about allying with other pureblood families, rather than love. When my aunt Andromeda married a, a Muggleborn man, she was disowned. My parents are… they're not going to be happy with me when they find out what I've done."

I dig my toe in the sand, trying to come up with something diplomatic and failing. "I can't say I'm sorry you did it, honestly."

He snorts. "I can't imagine you would. And…I don't regret it. I feel… like I've stood up for something good, not just something I'm obligated to."

"Well… good then. I'm glad for you."

There doesn't seem to be much more to say after that, and in a moment of silent agreement, we turn and head back up to the cottage.

The rest of the day is spent napping and snacking. But then at dinner, conversation reignites around the potential of the Howler jars. "...and I've had the thought that they don't really have to be a call to action, you know?" I say. "It can be more of a provision of information-type step, and then when we get a sense of everyone's reaction, we can see what we can do from there."

"But if the Ministry gets wind of what's happening, they'll take steps to counteract us somehow," Charlie argues. "And if you go around telling all the governments of magical Europe about what the Ministry are doing, you can bet there are going to be lots of questions and lots of outrage sent their way. It will not stay quiet."

"Per'aps we want zat," Fleur suggests. "Eef zee Ministry feels unstable, zat ees a chance for ze Order to make a move wis a good chance of success, no?"

"Ve also haff the Dandelion's Resistance. They vill vant to help," Viktor adds.

"We can send them a Howler along with the rest," I agree.

"But getting them out of the country is still a problem," Bill reminds us, though he sounds more thoughtful than dire. "There are Order members who can move without suspicion, but any international travel is highly suspect right now. We need to find a way to make them look like legitimate business somehow. And we need someone utterly above suspicion to do it."

"I still think Rachael Percival is a perfectly good option," I say stoutly. "She's Old Guard-qualifying, has no links to the Order, unless they take the fact that she lived with me as indicative, and she's told me more than once that she wants to do more to help Muggleborns. I trust her." And she's my friend and thinks I'm dead and I want to tell her I'm not. I want to tell them all.

Bill exchanges looks with Charlie and Fleur, and whatever he sees in their faces makes him sigh and say, "Alright, fine, we can contact her. But we can't have her here. This is an Order safe-house, and this—" He indicates the full table. "—is already a lot of people who aren't in the Order knowing about it."

"I understand. We can meet her…." Where? Even ignoring the fact that I'm officially dead, the Ministry had Viktor deported when he tried to stick up for me, and if the wrong people see Draco out and about, that could cause serious problems too. Charlie is clearly in the country clandestinely, which leaves Bill and Fleur. Bill shouldn't leave the cottage except as a last resort since he's Secret Keeper, so really Fleur is the only option. But she never met Rachael… "Fleur, what if you wrote her a letter saying you wanted to commission some clothes? We can say you got her name from a friend."

"Ees she taking commissions?" Fleur asks, but she already looks interested.

"No idea, but I don't know how else she might be earning money. All her training is for fashion and design. And it can't hurt to try, right?"

The rest of the evening is spent avidly crafting Fleur's deception, ensuring that the letter is polite, hopeful, not too meaningful, not too suspicious, just in the sweet spot of not quite demanding services, but implying solvency. "Zer," Fleur says, signing her name with a satisfied flourish. "Zat should do eet. Garçon can take eet in ze morning." I snort at the owl's name, and she smiles appreciatively at me.

The four of us are still tired from flying all of last night, so bedrooms are divvied up and spare pyjamas unearthed—Fleur glibly gives me a sheer silk nightgown and pretends not to hear my whisper-shrieked protests—and good nights are said and all at once Viktor and I are alone in a bedroom again. And he, it turns out, appreciates the nightgown a lot.

The next morning, Fleur sends Garçon off with the letter to Rachael, and we spend the morning getting a firmer grip on recent events in wizarding Britain. I know a lot from having translated for Mr Malfoy all those months, but he was obviously hiding a lot. No mention of the Humane Solution ever crossed his lips, for example. Bill and Fleur give news of the friends we have in common, few though they are, and Bill's family, and Harry Potter, who's apparently been mostly keeping a low profile with occasional bouts of derring do, and since there hasn't been a huge Ministry celebration that he's been caught, he is assumed to be at large. His friends Ron and Hermione are with him and also assumed to be alive and well. I can see the crimps of concern that form on Bill and Charlie's faces when they mention Ron, and Draco ducks his head as though to avoid attention.

But the more pressing matter than the missing Boy Who Lived is the growing number of disappearances, over the last six months especially. "Mostly they're clandestine Order sympathizers who weren't ever actually involved. But lots of them are Blood Traitors, so they're using that designation as leverage to frighten regular people into behaving. Mr Lovegood went missing recently, and apparently his place was wrecked as well. Even aside from all the Muggleborns they're Obliviating, there are a lot of people going missing that we can't explain."

I feel ill at the reminder that people are having their memories of their whole lives wiped away. I would lose nearly half of my life if someone took everything after that first day McGonagall knocked on the door of Mum's flat, but what about older people? Have the Haslets been made to forget each other and all their children? What about little old Isley? She must be in her seventies at least. And what had Kay said her status was? 'Muggleborn-adjacent'? Would they take her memories too? It's a struggle not to cry at the thought.

Fortunately, Garçon arrives back before that can happen, bearing Rachael's reply. We all huddle around Fleur as she tears the envelope open. 'Dear Mrs Weasley,' she writes, giving me some bad mental whiplash. 'I am flattered by your interest in my work, but I must tell you I have done very little personal design work in the past. May I ask for the name of the person who gave you mine?'

"Well, we can't say you, Nita," Charlie says.

"No?" Fleur inquires. "Could we not say eet was some time ago?"

"If they see her name, you'll both be under suspicion, no matter what the rest of it says," Bill sighs.

"Say it vos me," Viktor says firmly. "It is a matter of public record that ve know each other, Fleur, and I stayed at the flat vith Rachael after the vedding, before they forced me out of the country. But she vill still know the letter is something more than simple business."

Bill still doesn't think that's ideal, but it's the best we can come up with, so we craft the reply and send it off before lunch. In the afternoon, we start to draft the speech I'll make in the Howler jars and I practice speaking in my new language. It still makes the others very edgy to listen to it, and it's strange to speak it for too long as well. It's like I'm invoking more than simple words should be able to, like I've reached out and found the Platonic Ideal of languages, one that communicates the very deepest, truest form of the idea I'm talking about.

Rachael's reply comes quickly though, and we all gather again to read it. 'Dear Mrs Weasley,' she writes. 'I would like to begin work as soon as may be. If it is at all convenient, please stop by my flat as soon as you receive this letter. You have the address to Apparate.'

"She definitely knows something's going on," Charlie says nervously.

"Yes, that's why we used Viktor's name," I remind him impatiently. "Can we go? She said as soon as we got the letter. It's not even late yet."

"Are you sure you should go?" Charlie asks, frowning. "It's a big risk. If you're seen…"

"It won't be a risk. We can Apparate inside, to the stairs. Unless they've changed the Apparation wards on the Alley, that should work. The stairs only lead to our flat, so no one else should be there. And the whole point is that I should go, so yes, I'm sure." I look at Fleur. "We can go right now. I'll Apparate us."

Viktor steps up next to me. -I'm going with you too.-

I blink at him. -Are you sure? And why the Bulgarian?-

-I was without you for too long. I refuse to do that again. And Bulgarian because I love you an unseemly amount and in case I had to remind you of that, I didn't want to embarrass them by making them listen to it.-

I purse my lips at him, feeling my cheeks warm. -Fine.- I look back at the bright-eyed Frenchwoman. "Viktor's coming too. Shall we go?"

"Yes," she says, and leans up to kiss Bill goodbye.

-I love you too,- I mutter to Viktor as Fleur comes over and offers me her hand.

-I know,- he says, offering his hand as well. I take both of them, and focus hard, and Apparate home.

The stairs still smell funny from Mr Mulpepper's apothecary out front, but it's the sort of funny I know and recognize as safe and reassuring. And the sounds of the Alley still hum through the thin wooden door, more muted than I remember, but still dear and long-missed. My throat clenches, but I cough quietly to clear it. This isn't the time for dramatics. "Fleur, you should knock, since she's expecting you," I whisper. "Make sure she's alone. Then Viktor and I can come in."

"She vill be more likely to trust us if she sees me," Viktor disagrees softly. "Fleur and I should go up together. Vhen ve know it is safe, I vill come for you."

I hesitate. "Okay."

I watch with my heart in my mouth as they climb the stairs together, Fleur in front. She taps at the door, which opens immediately. "Mrs Weas—Viktor?" I hear Rachael gasp. "Merlin, what are you—come in, come in, are you insane?" They hustle inside and the door slams shut. I wait on pins and needles, but scarcely thirty seconds pass before the door opens again and Viktor gestures for me to come up. Suddenly too nervous for words, I mount the stairs, and turn and enter my flat for the first time in nine months.

The main room is the same, with its table and windows and clutter. There's the door to Rachael's room, ajar, and there's mine, shut. And there's Rachael herself, standing by the table and giving Viktor a confused look, until she sees me, and shrieks loud enough to raise the dead.

"God above, Rachael!" I hiss, hastening to shut the door.

"N-n-no," she stutters, clutching the back of a chair. Her face is chalk-white and blank with shock. "No, this can't… you're not…"

"Not dead," I say succinctly, and relish the words. Not dead.

Rachael presses a hand to her mouth, eyes welling with tears. "Nita…?" she whispers. "You're really…?"

"Yes," I say.

Then there's an eruption of shouting and sobbing and unintelligible noise, and she rushes to me and pulls me into a hug so tight I can hardly breathe. "I'm so sorry," she cries, wiping her face. "If I'd been faster getting Mr Bigby we would have gotten here before the Aurors, we could have done something, we could have—"

"What?" I protest, pushing her back. "Don't be stupid, they were Aurors. There was lots that could have gone differently, sure, but none of what happened was your fault. Are you daft?"

"And to think I missed you," she giggles through hiccups, mopping her eyes. "Merlin, Nita, I can't believe… where have you been? How did you escape?"

"It's a long story," I say hastily. "I will tell you, but not right now. Right now we have a question: want to help us bring down the Ministry?"

She stares at me. "Of Magic?" she demands.

"That's the one."

She stares a little more. "Yes! You think you have to ask that? Tell me what to do!"

I grin proudly at Fleur and Viktor, who have moved a little ways off to give our reunion what privacy they could. Fleur seems to be dabbing some stray tears, but they both return my smile.

"Okay, so it'll be dangerous. We'll need you to go to Europe, probably Germany or France. And you'll be transporting these little, well, message box things that we haven't made yet, and you'll have to send them out all over the place, to all the different governments of the Continent, and others besides. And from there somehow relay information back to us. Sound doable?"

"Easy," she says airily. "Could do it tomorrow."

I give her a dubious look. "...Okay. We still haven't figured out how to make them, so it certainly won't be tomorrow, but—"

"Oh, wait, wait," she says suddenly, and I stop short. Why would any of that give her pause when none if the first part had? "Have you seen Mr Bigby and Madam Malkin yet?"

Gladness and hope rise sharp and hot. "They're okay?"

She smiles. "They're okay. Mr Bigby still has his shop, and they live in the same flat still. Do you want me to get them?"

"Yes." The word pops out, full of eager longing.

She nods firmly. "Stay here." And she Disapparates.

My breath is suddenly short. I turn to Viktor, feeling all at once as though my bones are vibrating. "Why am I nervous?" I complain. "It's Bigby and Madam Malkin. Why am I nervous?"

Viktor comes over and kisses the side of my head. "It is okay," he says. "I understand."

Fleur joins us, eyes shining. "I weel go back and tell the ozzers Rachael's answer, yes? I weel see you when you return. You can Apparate now zat you have been zer." She kisses me on the cheek and Disapparates as well.

I look around, noting the little things that have changed now that it's calmer. The table is not as covered in sketch pages and designs as I would expect it to be, and there aren't as many types of tea on the counter anymore. All the ones I liked are gone. There are thick curtains up at the windows now, pulled incompletely over the panes, and something compels me to go over and look outside. The geography of the Alley hasn't changed: the Daily Prophet's offices are still across the street, sandwiched between Quality Quidditch Supplies and the Floo powder shop. Further along, lots of the other usual shops still stand as they always have. But all of them have papers up in their windows now: some of them look like wanted posters for people, though I can't see the faces, and some of them are just text with the fancy Ministry 'M' at the top. But some buildings are dark and empty, and they've got big signs and banners over their fronts, declaring UNITY - PURITY - SAFETY. I bare my teeth. The last time I saw those words, I was caged in the Atrium, on trial for my life. And fully half of the people I see walking below—and there are far fewer than there should be—wear Old Guard sashes. Loathing for how the Ministry's culture of prejudice and cruelty has infiltrated my home rises hot and acidic, and I turn sharply from the window. We must defeat them. There is no other option.

But then there's a little "Miue?" from behind me, and I look to see Sylvester cautiously slinking out of Rachael's room. "Why, if it isn't my old nemesis," I say, overcome with fondness for this animal that had always hated me. But to my surprise, he sashays over and rubs against my shin. "Is being dead for nine months all it took to make you like me?" I joke, pleased.

-He didn't like me when I stayed here either,- Viktor says. -But I don't have time to go be dead for nine months.-

I quirk a smile. -No, no one wants that.- Sylvester purrs in the silence, the noise from the Alley outside a dim undertone. -How long did you stay here?- I ask eventually. -After the wedding?-

He frowns and turns away. -Almost three weeks.-

-So, two weeks after my trial,- I say quietly.

He doesn't reply. The silence between us becomes dense.

-Viktor? Look at me?-

Stiff with unwillingness, he does, and I see what he was trying to hide. The grief and shame are raw and new, as though nine hours had passed since my trial rather than nine months. He lived with my death as a fact for three quarters of a year, and all the pain I imagined him feeling in that time was real, and worse than I ever realized. -Do you still think you could have done something to stop it?- I ask, horrified.

He hesitates. -If I hadn't lost my wand when that Shield Charm hit us…. Or if I had grabbed his wand, or held on to him better, or… You Apparated to get us to safety and that's what brought the Aurors here and I was fucking unconscious the whole time—- He clenches his eyes shut and rakes his hands up through his hair. -How could I not blame myself?-

-Because,- I retort, and he opens his eyes at the sharpness of my voice. -if I had just hexed him first, we could have grabbed his wand and Apparated that way. If I had been more proactive in that fight, you wouldn't have been knocked out in the first place. If I had thought to, to Vanish his body then I might not have been arrested in the first place! There are too many 'ifs' and way too much blame to go around, Viktor, and what happened already happened. I'm back. I don't blame you, or Rachael, or anyone else at all. So do you want to waste time feeling guilty? Or do you want to start a revolution with me?-

His eyes are very wide now, and locked on my face. I stare back fiercely, even though thinking back on what I said is making my face warm with embarrassment. -Well,- he finally breathes, and his smile spreads over him like the dawn. With his shoulders back and his chin up and his eyes bright, he looks more himself than he has since all those months ago at the wedding. -What can I say but agree to the revolution?-

I grin. -Did you stay in my room?- I ask, hoping the topic of his stay here is safer to explore now. I'm curious to hear the details I missed, all the bits of his life I didn't get to see.

-Yes,- he says, -but they came and took a lot of your things away. Rachael saved some things, I think, but… well, look.- He goes and opens the door of my room, and I follow, equal parts curious and apprehensive.

It's very bare. The bedframe and mattress remain, and the shelves under the window, and the wardrobe with the broken door. But my old ratty Hogwarts trunk is gone, and the rug is gone, and the slouchy chair that always smelled like pears for some reason is gone, and all of the things that were mine, my books and my clothes and endless pages of scribbled article ideas and notes. My… -Is Budge okay?- I ask urgently, but just then there's a loud crack of Apparation in the main room and Madam Malkin's voice demanding, "I expect now you'll explain why you've hauled us out here without so much as a by-your-leave? Why, it's Viktor! My word!"

I hold in a laugh. Madam Malkin wouldn't change for the world, that much is clear.

"I am not the vun you are here to see," Viktor says, and steps out of the doorframe so that they can see me, and I them. They both freeze with expressions of polite confusion, which slowly morph into disbelief as they register who they're looking at. My embarrassment comes rushing back, and all I can manage is a shrug and a lopsided smile. "I'm home," I say.

Madam Malkin's wail matches Rachael's shriek in volume, though thankfully not pitch, and before I can even brace myself she's thrown herself at me in a furious hug. She's stout but surprisingly strong, and I know better than to try and disentangle myself, so I end up standing in her embrace as she sobs on me for rather a long time. And I am glad to see her, truly. She was always overbearing and opinionated and thought she knew best about everything, but she cared about me, and it wasn't a lie when I told Draco she's the closest thing I have to a mother. But…

When she finally lets me go, sniffling dramatically, I see that Bigby hasn't moved from the spot where Rachael Apparated them. All that's changed is that he's lifted a hand to cover his face and his shoulders are silently heaving. I take an uncertain step. "Bigby?" The shaking redoubles and the hand over his face starts to tremble. I've never seen Bigby cry before, and I don't like it at all. "It's okay," I say, but it comes out more like a question. "It's okay, I'm back now…" I have no idea if that's the right thing to say. It certainly doesn't make him stop, and my feet are hesitant and slow as I close the space between us, til I'm close enough to touch the sleeve of his old leather jacket. "Bigby…?"

And all at once he reaches out and gathers me in against his chest, and through his shuddering breaths I think he says, "My girl's home, oh Nita…." And somehow that's the final straw for me, and I bury my face in his shoulder and cry out of sheer relief. Now I'm home. Bigby has always been there for me, even when I was too stupid and stubborn to accept I needed help in the first place.

Of course I end up explaining the whole thing. Rachael is still curious and Madam Malkin will stand for nothing less than a full recitation. I elide as much of the bad stuff as I can, but they can see the scars on my hand, so I can't leave all of it out. But I end off with the fact that we're working to overthrow the Ministry (leaving out the Order for the sake of Bill and Fleur) and how Rachael's agreed to help and my new language and that distracts them decently well. It's quite late by then and Madam Malkin insists on fixing supper. Viktor makes a quick trip back to the cottage to reassure them that we haven't been caught by Aurors, and then returns to share the meal.

I focus the conversation on practical matters, problems we can actually solve, like how to get Rachael and the Howler jars safely across the Channel. In the end it's Madam Malkin who solves that particular conundrum. "I'll set her up in business," she declares. "Work has been hard to come by here lately, so I've sent her to my good friend and colleague in France to make something of herself. We can disguise these things you're making as product samples. Perhaps a sort of cosmetic box." The rest of us look at each other, impressed.

"Yeah, I… I reckon that will work fine," I muster.

"No need to sound so shocked, dear," she replies primly. "I held my own in business for thirty years. I know a thing or two about how to move goods around without certain people knowing."

Astounded and discomfited by the implications there, I tackle the next problem instead. "So do you have fifty or so empty cosmetic boxes we can use? Where can we get them if not?"

Madam Malkin flaps her hand unconcernedly. "I have something I can replicate. Truly, the next question is, how does one go about making a cosmetics box into a Howler?"

"I… don't know. I don't even know how to make a regular Howler. The thing I saw that gave me the idea is…" I shake my head before I can say something that will trigger the non-disclosure binding. "I can't examine it."

"Do you know someone who could?" Rachael asks.

"Um…" I don't know how to find the Haslets or Isley, if they're even still in the magical world. But Croaker? Might he still work at the Ministry? Is it safe to send a letter directly there? Do I trust him? He always seemed to be on my side, or close enough, but a lot has happened since then. "Maybe?" I explain as well as I can, which is not very well considering everything I know about Croaker I learned under the tear binding, and no one looks fully satisfied when I wind up. "But the others I knew were all Muggleborn, so who knows where they are now." A gloomy silence results from that statement. "But loads of people know how to make Howlers," I try to rally. "And adjusting the spells can't be too hard. I'm sure we can figure it out."

It's quite late by then, so Viktor and I get ready to return to the cottage. After many assurances that we'll return to the flat frequently, Madam Malkin suddenly gasps and says, "Wait!" and Disapparates. She's back before I can even be properly confused, now with a handful of brown fluff and feathers. It hoots in confusion.

"Budge!" I cry, and his little head pokes out of her hands and pivots around to look at me.

mum? he squeaks.

hi buddy, I coo delightedly.

mum! he squawks, and flaps out of Madam Malkin's hands to me and tries to burrow into the crook of my shoulder. His little warm head pressed up against my neck is the nicest thing, and I skritch under his beak. mum went! fly far-far? home now? wings okay? burden for budge?

"He'll want to go with you now," Madam Malkin says fondly. "Poor thing's been despondent while you've been—away. He missed you terribly."

"I missed him," I murmur, and think, out of nowhere, that at least Edgar didn't have to deal with me being gone all that while. He'd have been furious with me. The thought makes me smile.

"Oh my goodness, I forgot!" Rachael exclaims, and rushes back to her room. Rummaging sounds emerge, and shortly thereafter, so does she, toting a medium sized box with some books and papers sticking out the top, and a length of green cloth over her arm. "This is all I could save." She sounds apologetic as she puts them down on the table. "I didn't know which books you might want most so I just grabbed what I could. But…"

I go over and touch these rescued artifacts reverently. The box holds eight or ten random linguistics books and what looks like several old drafts of my second article with Regina. And underneath those are all of Viktor's letters, the ones I kept but could never bring myself to read. And the green cloth is the cloak Madam Malkin gave me for Christmas my last year at Hogwarts, the one that made Viktor pick the nickname dandelion for me. It's like seeing a ghost of myself.

-You kept them?- Viktor has come up behind me and is looking at the box full of letters.

I blush. -Just because I couldn't read them doesn't mean I threw them away.-

-But…- He doesn't seem to know what to say.

Becoming aware that Rachael, Madam Malkin, and Bigby are all conspicuously looking at random corners of the room to seem like they're not listening to us, I blush hotter still and bundle everything back into the box. "Thank you," I say to Rachael, too quickly to sound sincere. "I'm glad— That is, these things are— I mean, I can't believe— rgh!" For the millionth time in my life, I wish my language gift gave me any sort of help when it comes to expressing feelings. But I flounder on unaided, sinking deeper into the mire of my own awkwardness. "Let's go!" I burst out to Viktor, and grab the box of my old belongings and his arm and Disapparate as quickly as I can, Budge twittering delightedly as he clings to my shoulder.

The beach is dim with evening moonlight, the surf shushing lazily along the sand. My whole body is still hot from embarrassment, and the breeze is especially welcome. A little way off to the right, the windows of the cottage glow with warmth and welcome. I start determinedly towards it, only for Viktor to catch hold of my hand and pull me back. Budge, jostled, hoots remonstration and launches off to explore. "What—" I begin, but Viktor cuts me off with a kiss, a kiss soft and full of meaning. His beard is warm on my chin and all the frenetic anxiety I felt only moments ago washes away, leaving relief in its place.

-I'm glad you have your family back,- he says when he pulls away, resting his forehead on mine. -I'm sorry I put you on the spot about the letters. I was surprised to see them.-

-I was too,- I murmur, the kiss's heat still lingering on my lips. -I'm sorry I never read them. I wanted to, but… I thought I was staying away from you for your own good. And I knew that if I read any of them, I wouldn't be able to resist going back to you.-

He shakes his head, making mine rock back and forth as well. -How much would be different, if only…-

-We agreed, no more of that,- I remind him. -Now let's go inside.- We do, and are greeted with enthusiasm and curiosity. It doesn't take long to explain Madam Malkin's idea about how to get Rachael to Europe, and her idea of how to disguise our Howlers. The only thing left to do, we decide, is make them.

We tackle that issue the next morning, emptying a mostly-used bottle of Pepper-up Potion to use as our experiment subject. And it turns out to be good that we start with that rather than something valuable. Making a Howler is easy enough: Bill and Charlie both know the charm for it, but we have to finagle it to, first, work on the bottle rather than a paper, then, make sure it doesn't explode when it's delivered its message, and then, repeat the message more than once. And something about that combination of edits does not react at all well. The bottle ends up exploding several times despite our best efforts; more than once it screams its short message to the point of deafening all of us for most of an hour; and steadfastly refuses to repeat the message when we want it to. None of us ever studied Arithmancy, but Bill's skills come closest after working at the bank for nigh on ten years, and he takes it as a personal affront that he can't get the blasted thing to work. After two days of failures, he gives up and declares that we'd better get in touch with my Unspeakable friend if we're going to have the stupid things at all.

And so we have to figure out how to contact Croaker. Bill's work aligns the most naturally with consulting an Unspeakable, and although he's not in the Ministry's good books due to being related to so many Blood Traitors, the excuse we cook up should look legitimate enough to get past the censors, while still alluding to things I learned while working with him so as to pique Croaker's interest. We send Garçon out again (Budge is jealous and despondent) and wait nervously.

His reply is more than a day in coming, and he's just as laconic and dour in writing as he is in person. Mr Weasley, he writes. Your question is too complex to discuss via letter. Come to my home this Saturday at 10. Coordinates enclosed. —Shyam Croaker

"To his home?" Charlie repeats uncertainly. "It could be a set-up. There could be Aurors."

"I'll take wards and a Portkey," Bill says. "And if anything seems fishy, I can stick to legitimate business. I am truly curious about that question we asked him."

"I weel go wiss you," Fleur says, all her haughty confidence on display. "Eef we need, I can dazzle 'im."

Bill grins and kisses her hand. "Good plan."

So on Saturday, they both fill their pockets with wards and a Portkey each, and Apparate away. The four of us who remain prepare for an anxious day of waiting, but they return in only half an hour, both looking sheepish. "The first thing he said once we were inside was 'she's alive then, eh?'" Bill tells us. "We weren't as subtle as we thought."

"Unspeakables are meant to be clever," I point out, though my stomach does a few nervous flips at his perspicacity. "Did he say he would help?"

"He says the whole Department of Mysteries is being too closely scrutinized to allow him that sort of leeway. But he said there was someone named Haslet who could help."

"The Haslets?" I cry. "They're okay?"

Bill shrugs. "It sounded like he was only talking about one person, but if he or she is going to help us then they must be reasonably alright. Here, he gave us this for you…" He pulls a sheet of parchment out of his pocket.

I unfold it and find an address near the Welsh border next to 'tomorrow, 8am, alone'.

"I do not like it," Viktor says at once. "Alone? Vy?"

"The Haslets are Muggleborns," I explain, distracted by Bill's intuition that Croaker only meant one Haslet. What happened to the other? "If they've been in hiding, I understand not wanting to meet many people at once." Viktor nods grim acceptance to this.

The next morning, it's me who gets loaded up with wards and a Portkey, till my green cloak hangs heavy on my shoulders. Viktor scowls the whole time, not bothering to hide how much he hates the plan. I've reminded him several times that the Haslets are Muggleborns, disenfranchised victims who have no reason to betray me, but it's more the spirit of the thing than the facts that he dislikes. But nevertheless, at 7:59, I Disapparate smartly away.

The landscape where I pop out is foggy, and dim green hills loom up around me like ships adrift at sea. I turn on the spot, but I don't see anyone else anywhere. "Hello?" I call softly, wondering if I've somehow come out at the wrong spot. But then there's a soft sound behind me, and I turn again and find Mrs Haslet stepping out of the fog. Or rather, steps out of a strange, shimmering invisibility that matches the fog almost exactly. No wonder I hadn't seen her. "What is that?" I blurt.

Her face is more worn and unhappy than last time I saw her, but she smiles a little at that. "It's an invisibility cloak. Not a very good one, the spells are getting quite old. But it does the trick at times like this." She folds the shimmer over her arm. "Miss Linese…. I couldn't believe it when Shyam told me… You must have quite a story."

I shrug, flexing my scarred hand involuntarily. "I reckon we all must do."

She nods soberly, grief drawing her features down like another kind of gravity. I don't want to ask, or make her speak her pain aloud, though my concern and curiosity for Kay are strong. Of course Mrs Haslet would care about her way more than I do. If she wants to tell me—if she even knows anything—she can tell me when she wants to.

"I need your help," I say instead.

"Yes, so Shyam said. With what?" The change in topic seems to strengthen something in her, and she squares her shoulders.

I hesitate. "Am I allowed to talk to you about the work I did? Even though I'm bound?"

"Yes, since I was there."

Pleased, I barrel on. "The Howler jar thing, the one I translated. We need to make one. Well, lots, actually. But we can't make it work, the spells react badly with each other and when we edit them the whole thing usually just explodes. Do you know how?"

She doesn't answer for a minute, lips pursed in thought. Then, slowly, "Yes, I do. But… who is 'we'? Who are you working with?"

It's my turn to hesitate. But Mrs Haslet is Muggleborn, has clearly been forced out of wizarding society for her blood status, and isn't that exactly the sort of person the Order is trying to help? "I'm with the Order of the Phoenix," I say, and quickly add as her eyes widen, "The real one, not the one that was doing all the attacks a few years ago. They're working with me to bring the whole Ministry down and make things how they were again. Better than how they were. You can trust them. I do."

"Alright… And how does the—did you call it a Howler jar? I quite like that. How does it fit in?"

"We're going to make them record me explaining everything that's been happening here, and send them out across Europe. Have you heard of the Dandelion's Resistance? And I've met a lot of the Continental governments as the Babel Witch. It's a long story. But we hope that if enough hell gets raised across the Channel, that will destabilize things enough to stage a coup." It feels incredibly strange to be saying such things. It feels like something out of a book, not something to say in real life.

Mrs Haslet is agog. "That—a coup?—If the Order is—So wait." She holds up her hands as though trying to make the world pause. Her invisibility cloak sways and makes part of her torso and leg disappear. "You want my help to create a lot of Howler jars so that you can foment ill-will abroad so that you can take over the Ministry here?"

"Broadly, yes."

She blinks at me for a minute. "I'll want something in return."

"Okay…" Hopefully it's something I'll be able to promise.

"Safety for my children."

"Of course," I say, relieved. "I'll arrange it with my friends." From there it's a matter of settling logistics—a time to meet again, a place, and then we say farewells and I Apparate back to the cottage on the beach to relay the good news. But to my very great surprise, Mrs Haslet's condition meets with some resistance.

"That's not what the Order is for," Bill says regretfully.

I gape at him. "Not what it's for? Not what it's for? Then what the hell is it for? Mrs Haslet is Muggleborn and her children aren't much better in the eyes of the law. Isn't the Order based on protecting people like them?" Charlie, Viktor, Draco and Fleur have drawn away from us, looking uneasy about the argument.

"It's not that I don't want to," Bill says, trying to placate me. "But the Order can't provide a safehouse for every Muggleborn who needs it. There are too many, and we're stretched too thin as it is. It would be too dangerous."

"Dangerous for whom?" I demand. "You're already in the Order. You have categorically signed up for danger. All you'd be doing is helping someone else be in a bit less."

"The Order's first priority is to defeat You-Know-Who," he says stiffly, unhappily. "We can't take unnecessary risks."

"Who cares if you defeat You-Know-Who if everyone he hates is already dead?" I shout. "How big of a hypocrite do you have to be?"

"Dumbledore—" Charlie offers weakly, but before he even finished the name I've heard enough.

"Dumbledore didn't warn three of the people in this room that they would have to take on dragons at the age of seventeen," I snap. "Don't offer him as your moral measuring stick." I glare around at everyone. I don't blame Draco or Viktor for not speaking up: they have less clout than I do. But I am disappointed in Fleur, and angry with the Weasleys. "I reckon I can do it without the Order then." I lift my chin against their surprised looks. "I've got the flat with Rachael. Someone will know how to do a Fidelity Charm or whatever it's called. It's my language and story going in those jars, my contact from the Department of Mysteries helping us make them, my friend going to Europe with them, and the connections Viktor and I made there that are going to help us. So the question becomes, will the Order of the Phoenix stop us? Because it turns out we don't really need your help."

There is a silence in the little house. I'm breathing hard, feeling as though the rug is about to be pulled from under me. All of that felt extremely convincing and revelatory as I was saying it, but what power do I actually have here? Being the Babel Witch isn't really important here, and the whole reason Charlie brought us here in the first place was so that Bill could break the blood binding. Have I just been an ungrateful guest rather than a righteously angry revolutionary?

"She ees right," Fleur says, stepping forward. "We 'ave a duty to do all zat we can. Madame 'Aslet weel be 'elping us. Zerefore, we must 'elp 'er." I let out a relieved breath, and release my disappointment toward her.

With Fleur on my team, things are settled quickly. We make a Portkey to take the Haslets to the flat, and turn my room there into a sort of hostel by replicating my bedframe and mattress a few times. We put the Fidelius Charm on the flat, making Bigby our Secret Keeper. Bill helps, and the ruffled feathers from our argument seem to settle. I'm still disturbed that the Order's official line seems to be to let Muggleborns fend for themselves, but if I can argue against that often enough, maybe it can change.

I meet Mrs Haslet at the agreed time and place, and marvel at how similar the four children she brings with her look. The youngest is maybe 12 and the oldest could be 16 or 17, but they've all got the same soft brown hair as Kay, and the same nose and chin. They're even more similar than the Weasleys, who at least vary in height from one to the next.

"You were in the Triwizard Tournament," one of the girls says when she sees me, eyes wide. "You talked to the dragon."

"Were you at Hogwarts then?" I ask, pleased but embarrassed.

She nods. "In second year. I was Ravenclaw."

I nod back, discomfitted by her use of the past tense. If she was only in second year when I was in seventh, she should still be in school. Just more evidence of how much the Ministry has to pay for. But then it's time for everyone to touch the Portkey, and it yanks us and twists through space til we land with a bump on the top landing of the stairs. Bigby is waiting there, since he has to be the one to let them in the Charm, and introductions are hastily made. The kids are all eager to have a room and their own beds—I don't ask the circumstances they've been in while in hiding, but their happy exclamations touch something deep in my heart and I decide then and there that nothing is ever going to hurt those kids again.

Once they're settled, we get straight to work. Madam Malkin has been as good as her word, and replicated nearly a hundred little round ceramic pots with pink and gold glazes, just the right size to sit in my palm. Some of them are set aside and filled with actual cosmetic to make Rachael's cover story more viable, but the rest are arrayed over the big table in the main room, their lids open and waiting. Mrs Haslet does a couple test runs to make sure she has the theory correct, and when the second try works perfectly (a snide little part of me makes a note to tell Bill), it's time for me to get involved.

I stand in front of the table and my stomach sinks. All of a sudden, this feels too big for me. There's no way I'm the one shaping the course of the future this way. There's no way I'm trying to save all the Muggleborns of wizarding Britain. I'm just… myself.

I clench my jaw. Being nothing more than myself has gotten me this far. It will get me farther still. It is enough to do this.

I nod to Mrs Haslet and she utters the first spell, the one that will make the pots retain my words.

|Hello,| I say. Mrs Haslet startles badly, and I realize too late that I should have warned her about my language. |My name is Nita, but you probably know me as the Babel Witch. There is no name for the language I'm speaking, but you should be able to understand. I know it's strange to listen to, but please hear me out. I have some very important things to tell you.| It's a story of nearly an hour, starting from the end of the Triwizard Tournament when McGonagall explained to me about Crouch impersonating Moody. Then on to the false Order of the Phoenix's staged attack against the Malfoys and all of their subsequent crimes, the Ministry's escalating retaliation against Muggleborns, the calculated murders of Mr Fudge and Madam Bones, until my role turns from incidental witness and victim to active participant at Bill and Fleur's wedding. I don't try to make it sound like anything other than what it was: I did kill him. It was cold-blooded, by the end. It was also self-defense, and I was out of my mind with fear for Viktor. My arrest, my time in prison—mentioning Kay makes Mrs Haslet gasp again, I should have warned her about that too—the conversation I heard between Umbridge and the other Ministry people, and the one between Snape and You-Know-Who, my torture and trial, forced binding to the Malfoys, and various abuses and humiliations undergone while in their service, all of that is spoken into the jars to be sent all across Europe in the hope that it will make a difference. And on top of my own story go the stories of others, Muggleborns forced from schools and jobs, families broken apart, people Obliviated of all their memories. Outrage and grief make my voice shake. |At this time, we don't have a plan,| I say, finally reaching the conclusion. |We only know that the situation is intolerable, and that the world must know the truth. Direct all questions and so on to the Dandelion's Resistance, and we shall find a way to communicate with you. Spread these jars far and wide so that as many people as possible know the facts. If we've done our magic right, replacing and then removing the lid of the jar should let you listen to this again. Thank you.|

Mrs Haslet performs the second spell and the lids float up and land on their pots. "There," she says. "Shall we test one to be sure?" I nod nervously. Despite all my language work, I've never heard my own voice recorded before. If I sound terrible, that's what everyone is going to hear. Mrs Haslet takes the top off a pot near the edge of the table, and my voice fills the room. |Hello. My name is Nita, but you probably know me as the Babel Witch.| She shuts the lid again. "Well done," she says quietly. I nod in thanks, feeling prickly and uncomfortable. I sound better than I feared I would: in fact I sound great, authoritative and self-assured. Just how you would want a potential revolutionary to sound. But very different from how I think of myself sounding.

"Good," I say shakily. "Now we just have to get Rachael out of the country safely with them."

But that turns out to be surprisingly easy. Madam Malkin really did just set her up in legitimate business, so her first stop is with a friend of hers from the Witch Weekly fashion show in Paris. But from there she's heading east to meet with some founding members of the Dandelion's Resistance who will help her distribute the Howler jars, and I've given her a list of all the people I remember meeting while translating for Mr Malfoy, with Herr Ansel at the top. She sends Madam Malkin a letter from Paris, full of bubbling enthusiasm for this 'fantastic opportunity', this 'fresh start in a new place', her gratitude is endless, etc. Perfectly innocent, the only way it would get past the censors, but we know it means she and the jars made it safely.

We knew it might be difficult for her to get many letters back to us after that, so it's no surprise when the first sign that things have gone as planned is a huge spread on the front page of the Daily Prophet, hysterically reporting that there's a conspiracy against the Ministry, that someone pretending to be me has been spreading pernicious rumours on the Continent, that the Dandelion's Resistance is a criminal gang made up entirely of Mudbloods and halfbreeds, and that "our fair, pureblooded Isle must remain strong against this vile incursion".

The problem from there is how to communicate with her. We'd told her that the Sanctuary could be a good place to start, and Charlie returns there to try and act as the go-between, but after he leaves, the Ministry announces that they've strengthened the wards around the island, so it would be too dangerous for him to try and return.

Viktor and I spend our time split between the cottage and the flat, talking with everyone and trying to figure out the best next step. We're there on a chill, starry night at the end of the month, gathered at the dining table after supper, when there's a sudden crack of noise outside, and we all jerk up straight, alarmed. Wands are grabbed, we all hurry to the door, and a shrill voice out of a tiny figure indistinct in the darkness squeaks, "Sir! They are needing help, sir!" There are four people, one the tiny one, two others, and an old man lying prone on the ground, seemingly unconscious or close to it. In the dim starlight, the old man looks like… Mr Ollivander?

"Dobby?" Draco cries in astonishment.

"Malfoy!" one of the others snarls. "Dobby, we have to go, it's not safe here—"

"No, wait!" Bill shouts. "How did you get through the Charm? Where did you come from? This is a safe-house for the Order. Draco Malfoy is…" He trails off. "...here, for the moment."

"We just came from his family's bloody house!" the snarling man says, and as my eyes adjust, I think I begin to recognize him. He was a few years behind me in Gryffindor, wasn't he? Thomas, maybe? "They held Luna and Mr Ollivander and Griphook and me in the basement for months, they're torturing Hermione, and you tell me 'he's here'?" Draco takes a half-step back, his whole body sagging in shock.

"Dobby must return and help Harry Potter!" the tiny figure squeaks, and I see now he's a house elf, all wide shining eyes and delicate flapping ears. "Please give them help, Sirs and Ma'ams!" And with one uneasy look at Draco, he turns on the spot and Disapparates.

Fleur has gone to check on Mr Ollivander and calls tensely, "'E ees not well!"

Loyal to anyone related to the Alley, I push forward, which makes Thomas notice me, and startle badly. "Nita Linese?"

"It's a long story," I say shortly, kneeling by Mr Ollivander. His breathing is shallow and his eyes flit brightly from spot to spot til they seem to catch on my face.

"Ah," he breathes. "Applewood and unicorn, wasn't it?"

My throat catches unexpectedly. "Yes, sir."

He lifts a frail hand to pat my knee. "And did it ever forgive you?"

I blink hard. "I hope so, sir. Shall we get you inside?"

"Hm, yes, I suppose…" And he slips into unconsciousness, his breaths evening out. Fleur and I share a glance and I pull my wand to gently hover him into the house. Bill and Viktor are negotiating with Thomas while Draco hangs back, and Fleur goes to see to the third person, a thin blonde girl sitting slumped on a rock who I also vaguely recognize from Hogwarts. I get Mr Ollivander settled in the room Viktor and I have been staying in, then hurry back out and start making tea. Draco comes in a moment later and offers to help, visibly uncomfortable.

Over the next fifteen minutes, things get… not less tense, really, but at least calmer. Thomas—whose name is actually Dean Thomas—settles down enough to come in the house, though he continues to glare daggers at Draco, and the girl, whose name is Luna Lovegood, accepts tea and biscuits before falling asleep in an armchair. In the light, they're both thin and haggard, dirty and exhausted. Had Dean said they'd been in the Malfoys' basement for months? Why?

But before anything can get straightened out properly, there are two more Apparation cracks outside, and we all rush out again. There are two little groups, one a pair that turns out to be Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, and Bill and Fleur rush to them immediately, so Viktor and Dean and I head for the other, a trio made up of Harry Potter, the elf Dobby, and a third, small figure who sprawls over the sand. As we draw nearer, Dobby staggers and reaches out for Harry, and I see something at his chest glinting silver. Harry says something, then, as Dobby collapses, shouts, "HELP! HELP!" We run faster, Viktor and Dean outstripping me easily, but by the time they get there, and a few moments later, I join them, Harry is curled over the tiny body, and Dobby's eyes are glassy and blind.

Dean crouches next to Harry, murmuring to him, until Harry's head suddenly jerks up. "Hermione," he says. "Where is she?"

"Ron and his brother are taking her inside," Dean says. "She was walking, I saw."

Harry nods, seeming to subside back into his own thoughts. I have no idea where he's been or what he's been doing, but it hasn't been kind to him either. His hair has grown long and shaggy, his eyes are set in deep hollows, and his cheekbones are sharp over several days' growth of beard. And he seems strangely fay about the edges, like part of his mind isn't quite here.

In a glance, Viktor and I agree that we should take the goblin—for that is what the prone figure is—up to the cottage and see what sort of help they need up there. Viktor lifts him easily, and we nod to Dean, who nods back that he'll stay with Harry.

I turn out a bit useless back at the cottage: Hermione Granger has some sort of wound on her arm that's bleeding heavily, and the first glimpse I get of that sends me dizzy and nauseated, so I retreat to the kitchen and set about mechanically making more tea. Draco is in there too, sitting with his hands clasped between his knees, looking pale and miserable.

"Well," I say, more sharply than I mean to. "Spit it out."

He startles and looks at me. "Weasley—Ronald, that is—told me my aunt did that, to Granger. Screamed it, really."

My stomach rolls dangerously. "Don't make me think about blood, please."

"Sorry." He sits silently while I fix up the teapot and cream. "I have a lot to make up for," he finally says, quietly. I make sure the cups are going to land on the tray properly, then look at him. He's staring into the middle distance, brows drawn down in concentration. "I was awful to all of them at school, Granger especially. But now my whole family as well… I had hoped that helping you with the binding would sort of tip the scales, but it doesn't." He looks up at me. "What if I can never make it right?"

I lift a hand to push the hair out of my face, but it's my scarred hand, and I arrest the movement to stare at it. "It's not nothing, what you did for me. I'd say… the most you can do is follow your conscience. If you feel bad about something you did, say so, and see if there's any way to repair it. If there is, do that. If there's not…" I shrug. "That's up to them. I know I have people I wouldn't forgive. But they've never even tried to apologize."

He nods, and looks back at his hands.

"See if I can go back out there, would you?" I say, lifting the tea tray.

He gets up, but instead of checking out the door, he takes the tray from me and goes out himself, a rather tense cast on his features. I watch him go, proud and uncomfortable with it.

Viktor and Draco and I go back to the flat not too long after, as there's not enough room for all of us to stay at the cottage. Viktor and I take Rachael's room and Viktor transfigures a bed for Draco in the main room, with curtains hung by it for privacy. Sylvester is not pleased with us, and Budge is confused to switch rooms, but they both settle eventually. I sleep wrapped in Viktor's arms, knowing I'm safe, and that soon, if everything goes right, everyone else will be too.

A/N

For the record, I know the Order are the good guys. But I do think their levels of secrecy were counterproductive and annoying, so Nita became my vehicle for that for a quick minute.

Heads up, I am in the middle of writing the next (last!) chapter, and I have every hope that I will finish it in time to post it next Thursday, but if not it will be up ASAP.

Happy Holiday Season in general, and Merry Christmas to those celebrating tomorrow! I'll be seeing family via Zoom and eating too many cookies, lol.

E.I. signing out