Chapter 2

"So what's your name anyway?" Draco watched the house elves as they set the room to rights while the girl picked at her meal, her eyes, and thoughts, directed out the windows at the leafy tops of the trees.

"Cecilia Manon Toussaint," she pronounced with obvious relish, rolling the French syllables across her tongue. "And before you ask, I grew up in New Orleans, in America. And no, I'm not going to tell you how I got here from there."

"Well that's simple," he retorted. "I already know that my father and some of his friends kidnapped you."

"Simple indeed," she spat. Her fingers moved to the medallion around her neck and stroked it, her eyes snapping angrily. "Have I told you how very happy I am that he's rotting in Azkaban?"

"Not in the last ten minutes or so," Draco drawled. He had come to enjoy their little exchanges over the last week or so- it reminded him of the pleasurable exchanges with Potter and his toad-eating little friends. The difference was, her insults had none of the furious spluttering in between sentences, every word was etched with acid and ice into pure vitriol. Delivered in her smooth, lilting voice, it took on an aspect of malice that Potty and Friends had never managed to achieve. "There aren't any pureblood families in the States, are there?"

"Pureblood in what sense?" she retaliated, finally turning to look at him. "There are quite a few witches in New Orleans."

"Hardly," Draco scoffed. "More like a bunch of pretenders."

"Really? Would you care to take these chains off and match skills?"

He frowned at her, shaking a finger reprovingly. She laughed, low and vicious, and stood up, chains rattling as she stretched and paced as far across the room as her binding would allow. She stopped in the doorway of the small bathroom, her eyes once again drawn to the window. He glanced in that direction, wondering what held her attention so strongly, but all he saw were the tops of the trees tossing in the wind, the dark green leaves flashing gold in the sunlight.

"Well," he continued, trying to goad her into a fight. "I still can't see what the Dark Lord wants with some Mudblood."

"You should learn to watch your words, young Malfoy," a wheezing voice interrupted. The drapes rattled across the window, plunging the room into dusky gloom, as a hooded figure glided into the room. Draco dropped reflexively to his knees, paling. Snape trailed behind the newest arrival, his sallow face looking even more gaunt than usual. Cecilia simply hissed like an angry cat, her fingers flicking in an old gesture, a ward against evil.

"Is that anyway to greet your beloved father, little Cecilia?" Hissing laughter punctuated the statement, and Draco's stricken eyes flicked to his godfather, who stared straight through him.

"Beloved is pushing it a bit, don't you think?" The contempt in her voice was thick enough to walk on, but Cecilia felt the first cold fingers of fear clutching at her bowels. I will get through this, she vowed silently. I will not let him break me the way he broke her... Red light snapped out of the gloom, searing her vision, and the world dissolved into pain.

When she could breathe again, when the world stopped being crackles of red light and black static, she could feel the coolness of the hardwood floor beneath her cheek. She struggled to hands and knees, tasting blood from a badly bitten lip, then to her knees. She swayed, her head feeling heavy and thick, but forced herself to her feet. Somewhere in the room, someone made a low sound of distress. She was betting on Draco. Forcing her spine to straighten, she lifted her head, too weak to do more than stand upright, and forced a laugh past her raw throat. It echoed in the room, bitter as ashes.