Draco leaned back against the wall, hands folded in front of him and expression clearly showing his displeasure.
"She really wouldn't have wanted us going through her things like this," he muttered, scowling at his mother who was busy rifling through his grandmother's wardrobe.
"Well, someone has to do it," she replied, not looking up from her task. Most of the clothes here she hadn't seen in years – decades, even – dresses worn for an evening and then left to gather dust; shoes that were more uncomfortable than they were pleasing to the eye; clothing left forgotten when newer, better, items were purchased. "Are you alright?" she asked, when she realised that Draco had been silent for longer than a couple minutes.
"What? Yes, I- I'm fine," he murmured, fingers tracing lightly over a necklace he could remember his grandmother wearing often. The delicate chain was tangled by curious relatives rifling through her jewellery box. He held the tiny golden bean between his index finger and thumb, rubbing the metal gently between his fingers; he wasn't sure of the significance of the bean – or perhaps it was the person who had gifted it to her – but she had rarely been seen without this necklace. One of the links was missing on the chain, however, and he supposed that might be why it had been left behind when other pieces were taken. That, or its clear lack of monetary value.
"You can keep that, if you like," Narcissa said, when she looked up and saw what had captured his attention. "Perhaps as a gift for Astoria."
"No, I- I don't think she would like it," he said quietly, his attention still on the delicate piece of jewellery. He pulled out his wand, casting a quick Reparo on the chain, wondering why no one else had bothered – yes, there would be one link less than there should, but it wasn't noticeable. He pocketed the necklace – he'd untangle it later – and turned back to his mother. "What are we looking for?"
"Nothing, Draco," she sighed. "We're just sorting out what's left of her belongings."
"Why didn't the Rosier's do this when they were looting Grandmother's belongings," he snapped, glaring at the poorly stacked papers and the boxes that were overflowing with the things people carelessly shoved in, regardless of the damage it might cause.
"They were not looting her belongings, Draco," Narcissa said, straightening up and turning to face her son once more. "Stop being ridiculous. They were her family."
"Some family," he muttered under his breath, still scowling at the boxes.
"That's enough, Draco. If you're not going to help, you might as well leave."
"I am helping," he muttered petulantly, stalking over to the boxes. He lifted the box off the top of the pile, swearing under his breath as the bottom gave out. He sighed, ignoring his mother's glare, and crouched down to pick everything up. The box had been mostly full of old papers, yellowed with age, but there were a few random things thrown in– a hairbrush, an expensive looking bottle of perfume, an ornate glass ashtray – and put them all on the large, king-sized bed to sort through in more comfort.
As he was leaning down to pick up the last few sheets of papers, he leant against the wall to steady himself. He could feel traces of magic in the wall, only showing because the spells placed were fading, losing their effectiveness.
"Mother?" he asked, pressing his palm flat against the wall, trying to see if he could feel what was hidden.
"What now, Draco?" she sighed, straightening back up once more.
"There's something here... concealed... Do you-"
"What is it?" she asked, walking across the room to where Draco was testing the wall with his wand.
"I don't know. I don't know what spells were used." He stepped back to let her take a closer look. "Nothing I can recognise."
"It's... something she showed me once," Narcissa murmured, more to herself than her son. "To hide my diary from Bella."
"She showed you what's behind there?"
"What-? Oh, no. She showed me the spells. I had no idea about this," she said absently, already her attention was back on the wall as she carefully removed the charms from the panelling.
She pressed down gently, causing the panel to swing open soundlessly. Inside, there was nothing but a small, wooden box, ornately decorated. It was clear that it had been handled often, the gold lock smudged with fingerprints – clearly the contents had meant more to his grandmother than the obviously expensive box.
Narcissa took it out carefully, opening it where she stood. The box was filled with letters, hundreds of them – some sort of expansion charm must have been used – each addressed in the same neat handwriting, spanning the course of years.
Spreading them out on the remainder of the bed, they began to go through them. Each began and ended in the same way:
Dearest Druella,
With All my love, O.B