The Disillusionment of Draco Malfoy

(and His Accomplice Hermione Granger)

Chapter 12

The next morning, Draco pads downstairs to find that Hermione has dedicated half the dining room wall to their little enlightenment plan. His history books are stacked neatly on the table next to blank parchment and two worn quills, and in the kitchen Hermione putters about making tea.

"No privacy," he mutters, eyeing his books that should be in his satchel. He takes a mug from her hands.

"What?"

"Nothing." He sips his tea. "Find anything interesting?"

"Loads." She smiles. "But we need more, so we're going to the library."

Reading Central Library is a brick building that, frankly, looks rather hideous. Draco's always been a fan of libraries, and spent a fair amount of time loitering in the one at Hogwarts, and in comparison this one is shit. The shelves are metal and the lights are horrendously bright, and it has a smell that wizarding libraries don't have. It's unpleasant, and instead of making him think of thick books bound in leather, ones that are older than the manor, it makes him think of jumpers. Heavy wool ones that itch and are too hot even in Scottish winters. It's stifling.

"Why couldn't we just go to a shop?" he asks, wrinkling his nose.

"Not everyone is made of gold, Malfoy. We commoners borrow most of our books," Hermione says. "Stop whining."

"I am not whining."

"And don't touch the computers."

He stops two feet from one of those miraculous machines he's only ever seen Joe and the others use, and glares at her.

"Spoil sport."

Draco follows her around with his hands shoved in his pockets until she fills his arms with books and tapes, and then drags him back to her house. They spend the rest of the day copying passages with Hermione's wand, since Draco refuses to use his, and listening to music and speeches trickling in from the living room stereo. By evening, the bare space on the wall is covered in photos, song lyrics, and passages from novels and plays. As dinner warms, Hermione takes out a small wireless.

"I listen to this, sometimes," she says, "and it's given me an idea."

She flicks it on and adjusts the station, and when a voice comes on that he recognizes, he finds he has to grip the edge of the table to stop himself from kissing her.


The muggle part is almost too easy: the wizard bit is harder. Much harder, especially with the plan Hermione has simmering in her synapses. She broaches it cautiously, carefully. It wouldn't do to blurt it out and have Draco hex her with her own wand.

"I know how we can get in to the Lestrange vault," she says.

"What, you're secretly adopted and have my aunt's blood running through your veins?"

"No, but there are those who do."

She watches it dawn on him, at least part of it, and he frowns so fiercely it's a wonder he doesn't pop a vein. "I am not going back there," he growls.

"You don't have to."

He blinks away the frown. "What?"

"If you went in, it would look too suspicious. You have your own vaults, so why go in theirs? But no one would bat an eye if Bellatrix went into her own vault."

"And…how are we gonna do that?"

"I know someone."

She wasn't sure about contacting them, of inviting someone else in to what has become such a private thing, between her and Draco. But there is no other option, so the next day there is a guest for tea.

"Wotcher, Draco."

"Oh for fuck's sake!"