The mood was almost giddy by the time the four teenagers had made it to the room Hermione had been lent. She had returned immediately to the bed and Draco had 'gemenio'd' enough chairs for the three boys to sit in.
Harry and Ron had tossed themselves into the straight back secretary chairs with abandon, nary a hint of distrust that it had been Draco who had conjured them. The thought was reassuring.
In time they all might even grow to be friendly with each other, with his unbreakable vow as the foundation for their trust. In time.
In time many things could change.
She avoided looking at any of them, in particular, in the eye, but Ron was looking at Draco like they'd been friends since the first Hogwarts Express ride.
"So, I didn't know you were French…" The jibe was clearly an overture in open dialogue, and Draco returned in kind.
"Malfoy, as in Mal Foi, yes. Actually, Armand wanted to cast off the name completely when he came to England, but ended up only being able to form a cadet branch of the house here… Apparently, the name simply holds true for him and his descendents..."
The perfect cadence of his French only threw Hermione for a moment, Malfoy Manor didn't seem to be the estate of a cadet branch of any family. Her mother would have been ashamed at the depths of her only daughter's Royals watching habit, but Hermione blamed the plethora of storybooks she had been plied with as a young girl. If she wasn't supposed to draw comparisons between Princess Diana and the heroines of the Brothers Grimm, then Hermione shouldn't have been exposed to both!
Visiting different locales on public days was one of her favorite past times as a young girl, and she'd spent an innumerable amount of her youth at the ones closest to her family home with her parents, and a floral printed, hardboard novel in tow.
She firmly grounded herself in the many benefits of representative democracy and a healthy apprehension for classism before inquiring, "How did you know he wanted the sword?"
Harry nodded vigorously, as he had apparently been wondering the same thing; but Draco only shrugged.
"It was a good guess, dragons love treasure and I saw something in that Goblin's eyes that reminded me of myself. It seems like everyone is after that little relic of yours." She tried to ignore the small smile he ended the address with and reminded herself that any Gryffindor could claim equal ownership to the weapon. Her stomach fluttered in defiance of her sensibilities.
Hermione needed time to process how the man she had loathed and pitied in equal parts, had begun to produce stirrings in her.
Harry, miracle upon miracle, seemed to take his old rival at his word and sat with the knowledge for a moment before he began to speak.
"It seems like Gringotts is the target, then Hogwarts." Hermione and Ron nodded dutifully, but Draco questioned the pronouncement.
"Why Gringotts first? We'll have a hell of a time breaking in, and nearly no difficulty in getting into school." A sour look from Harry was his reward for his honest question, but Ron explained, inexplicably still in possession of his good mood.
"Well it just makes sense, don't it? Yea, we can get into school, but we don't know what or where we're looking for… At least in Gringotts, we know it's something of Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, and it's in the Lestrange vault."
Harry stood up, informally adjourning the dialogue by stating, "Look, we're all tired. Let's umm, let's start planning with Griphook tomorrow, and leave 'Mione to get some rest." All three boys rose to leave, and at the last moment, before her good sense could bite off the request, Hermione yelled "Draco, a moment!," at an embarrassing volume.
He stopped short and turned on the spot, left toe behind right heel.
She could just see Ron's indignant confusion over his broad shoulders before Draco closed the door that was now behind him. And that had been going so well, too.
Hermione prepared herself from the hormonal onslaught the man's uniquely entitled elegance seemed to invoke in her, but was instead met with concern.
"I've kept you up long enough, I think." There was a double entendre there, if she dug deep enough; but the exhaustion was well and truly crushing.
"What did you mean when you said "the name held true?" I thought… I mean, Griphook implied that Armand wasn't awarded as well as he'd liked because he failed to help William the Bastard conquer Scotland."
Draco seemed confused at having his own words tossed back at him, but then quickly recovered by launching into what seemed to be a well-rehearsed tale. Afterwards, Hermione would wonder how old the man had been when it had first been relayed to him, bedside, in the vast manor.
"The original Malfoy family's ancestral home was in Draguignan, on the Côte d' Azur." Hermione was wide-eyed with surprise, despite the weariness that seemed to weigh them down. She had burnt to a crisp when she was 13 in the very same region. He caught her look of alarm.
"You've visited?"
"When I was younger, with my parents. And almost fainted of heatstroke; how did a clan of porcelain dolls like yourself survive?" His smile returned, the smug dragon's leer that had inexplicably been doing such damage to her wherewithal all day.
"Porcelain, eh? I've always described it as alabaster, myself… Armand retained the moniker of bad faith because of the circumstances in which he fled the continent, still estranged from his family." Hermione laid back in her bed and gestured for him to continue, more comfortable than she should have been with a young man in her room.
"You'll have noticed, passively, the similarities in coloring between myself and the Mrs. Weasley of Shell Cottage?" She hadn't, actually; but he continued along.
"Well, Armand was actually the second son, and had been betrothed to some Germanic heiress who possessed a dowry of a size her father judged an appropriate... supplication for her homeliness." The regency era vernacular sent Hermione deep into memories of adventures, both real and imagined, from various public days; and she bit her lip to ground herself in the present.
"I imagine he had reservations about the match, then." Draco blinked at the comment and seemed to have as much difficulty in continuing the conversation as her, for some reason.
"Quite. He breached the betrothal, took a Veela for his bride, and absconded with her to England under the banner of another son of lesser repute..."
"...William the Bastard." Hermione supplied, finally gauging the breadth of the tale.
"Exactly, and all their descendents were possessed of skin of alabaster, hair of platinum, and eyes as blue as the sea they left." She inspected him closely, as he gestured to the lasting evidence of the congress. The recounting was frustratingly accurate, save for his eyes.
"Your eyes are more gray than blue." In the dimly lit room, she was reminded strongly of the dull slate that made up her family's fireplace.
The smile shifted to the same smirk she might have seen him wear across the viaduct courtyard at Hogwarts.
"Noticed that, did you? They're from the Blacks, my mother's side."
'Like Sirius,' Hermione thought.
When he lived, Sirius Black had eyes so silver that they had glinted in the moonlight. She wondered, absentmindedly, if Draco's would look the same. The line of thinking had her smiling too, and Draco caught her with a gentle, "What is it?"
She debated the merits of honesty, then decided that ambiguity was the better option; "I'm just wondering if all the Malfoy wizards have a terrible history of making foolish choices over women…"
He laughed before he turned to leave, and made one last attempt at her sanity before he left the room.
"I'm named after our home of Draguignan, by way of the Black astronomical tradition, and, well… not all treasure is made of silver and gemstones, Hermione."
It should not have been as difficult to find rest as it was for her that night, and when she woke up the next day; she resolved that this current paradigm could not continue. It was an unwelcome distraction from the war effort and hardly was possessing of long term viability.
'Perhaps I overstepped.'
The thought was off-putting, but not debilitatingly dreadful. If Draco could just figure out what had put Hermione off of him, he'd be able to shore the gap of understanding up.
He'd thought nothing of it during their first planning meeting with Griphook, where the witch refused to so much as look in his direction, but after almost a week of this behaviour, he could no longer pretend something hadn't shifted in their interactions. That first day together after he had been bonded had been… wonderful. The stuff of his more embarrassing fantasies, actually. Even excusing the little lie of omission about Armand Malfoy's decision-making processes; the man was about as straight as a Snitch's flight path.
But as the week dragged on and the inhabitants of Shell Cottage actually seemed to make their peace (some more grudgingly than others,) with his presence; his rapport with Hermione had completely plateaued.
The Slytherin's current strategy to ease tensions had represented a huge blow to his pride too- he had inquired if Bill Weasley had a spare set of casual clothing that he could borrow.
Cleaning charms and sartorial transfiguration had definitely stretched the utility of his black robes, but they were still acquiring a bit of a "lived in" feel. A small oversight on his otherwise well-stocked provisions satchel, but an oversight nonetheless. Still, the perceived humility of the act had been no small service to his public image in the domicile, and he had taken to mixing the denim trousers, tweed vest, and dragonhide workboots into his daily wear with an experimental flourish.
Today's selection was mostly what he had arrived in, sans robe top but with the olive tweed vest to brighten up the aesthetic. He'd even managed to roll his sleeves up to the elbow without causing a mutiny today, and Draco thought he looked rather nice, even if he didn't have a charmed mirror to confer with. Still smart, but… relaxed smart- posh at ease, if he was pressed to elaborate.
The pain in the back of his neck had returned as well. It had started almost as soon as he met the Gryffindors outside of Griphook's closet for planning, and had intensified over lunch; which had otherwise been a welcome reprieve from the circular arguments that had occupied the session that morning.
The latest stand-off between Draco and Potter had been on the utilization of polyjuice. Draco had packed enough for all four of them, but they lacked the organic catalysts to make the brew work.
Which was when he had begun pushing for Hogwarts again. There were three Death Eaters in the building that they could steal hair from, and a multitude of their trainees to round out the infiltration. Wait, trainees- that was the ticket!
Draco nearly dropped the sandwich in shock as he muttered the name "Hugo Rosier!," under his breath. Only Hermione noticed, and the jabbing of the hot poker returned in full force, pinching and prodding as he shook his head to indicate 'later' nonverbally. Which seemed to be all the beautiful witch needed as she averted her eyes from him again, back to whatever drivel the veela was spouting off next to her.
It was when the four wizards and one goblin reconvened later, that Draco finally inquired to the group at large; "What about Hugo Rosier?"
Utterly blank stares until "Hugo the little second year?" came from Hermione.
"That's the one," Draco answered with a smile and raised eyebrows, trusting on her to unravel the significance of the reference.
Potter and Weasley were unappreciative of the reprieve, but he waited patiently for her incredible intellect to fit the clue into the massive series of puzzles and calculations she was chewing through. Her brow furrowed further as she became frustrated, as if the solution was just out of reach, save for one uncounted variable… Draco imagined it was due to her lack of context, which was such a shame, really.
"Hermione, the Rosiers are also-"
"-FRENCH!" Weasley screamed at the top of his lungs. Hermione popped an eyebrow, clearly bemused. The ginger continued excitedly, "They're in the French Quarter too, right? Next to the Malfoys and the Lestranges!"
Draco nodded an affirmation before adding, "Along with the Blacks, yes. The Malfoys inhabitance of Britain actually predates the establishment of Gringotts, and the Lestranges relocated soon after the institution was incorporated- so they both occupy some of the oldest, deepest vaults. When the Blacks immigrated by marriage in the 1700s, and the Lestranges much later, only emigrating completely in the 1940s, they were both granted occupancy in the same caverns, carved out of rock adjacent to two of the founding vaults of the branch. It sort of softened the blow for having to leave the majority of their wealth behind in France, I expect… Although, if my mother's stories of "that dawdry townhouse" she grew up in are anything to go by, it didn't work." He finished his explanation with a playful shrug, but didn't expect to be met with a series of guffaws from his audience.
Weasley was curled on his side with raucous laughter- and the other two weren't much better.
"Dawdry townhouse? Your mum grew up in Grimmauld place?" He managed, between freckled cheeks.
"Yes, it was their London Pied-à-terre. I'm sure they eventually planned on acquiring a larger swathe of land in England, but I don't think it ever really materialized. The muggles were far too established by that point to attempt to annex grounds of a size they thought would befit them, although Mother did always say that there was a certain je ne sais quoi atmosphere to the Rococo ballroom of Grimmauld place."
"There's no ballroom in 12 Grimmauld, it's a townhouse!" Potter's response was as confused as it was gregarious.
Draco was shocked at the attestment, but his credibility was saved by his curly-haired angel.
"Of course there wasn't, you can't have an Undetectable Extension Charm of that size underneath a Fidelius! I'll bet Dumbledore had to tear down dozens of protective enchantments that made up the ancestral warding- he'd have had to in order to make himself the secret keeper of the property!" Hermione finished the explanation with more than a hint of admonishment, as if she expected the boys to have pre-read all of N.E.W.T. level charms like she had. She looked up to him, as if to privately convey a sentiment of mutual disbelief in her two friend's lack of preparation, but quickly realized who she was conferring with and averted her private smile.
That was more than he had gotten all week though, and Draco was emboldened to continue; "Yes, well we've gone off on a bit of a tangent. Hugo Rosier is now, currently, a third-year Slytherin at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry… and in possession of a vault key that would allow him entrance to an account in the French Quarter, a quaffle throw from the Lestranges'."
'And my own,' he finished, silently. He didn't need to remind the Goblin, who had already spent the week alternating between drafting maps of pertinent routes and staring at the Malfoy heir, greedily.
Potter was incensed now, "But we still don't know where the Hallow is!"
Every inhabitant of the room looked at him oddly, and he only self-corrected with an entirely unconvincing, "Horcrux, I mean…," before he got to his feet and stormed out from the room.
Weasley shot Hermione a meaningful look, as if the mutual child of two estranged parents was acting up, before he gave chase. Hermione shook her head in what Draco guessed to be disappointment.
"That went wonderfully, thank you so much for all your help, Griphook." The goblin barely spared her a glance before settling back into his bed and waving them away.
He despaired then that she was going to leave his presence without so much as a word to him when, "Draco, would you care to take a walk with me?" His spirit soared as his mouth dried up, and he didn't trust his voice to answer her, so he nodded vigorously. Finally, she'd decided to address the distance she had inserted between the two of them!
They made it through the busy cottage swiftly, somehow making the door without attracting a drop of attention, when she stopped short behind him. He tore his gaze away from the delightful view he was afforded by her well-fitted denim trousers, and found what had impeded their progress; beyond the glass was a frightening April shower.
He was undeterred, moved past her as closely as he could without making contact, and propped the door open with his walking stick.
Her umber eyes were fixed, cold and distrustful on his proffered hand.
"I'll keep you dry."
"Why do I rather doubt that?" Was her offered response, and he took it, and her hand, folding her confidences into the crook of his arm. The door closed behind them, and he thrust the goblin silver point of the stick into the wet dirt, between the tulip bulbs, and released his wand from it with a twist and flourish.
They moved from underneath the roof's overhanging shingles to the wide, translucent canopy of his umbraculum charm. She pressed herself closer, as if she doubted the breath of his spell, then he realized she was shivering against the brace of the gale.
They should probably go back for-she flicked her wand thrice; once in a circle about them, next to each of their feet. Immediately, the chill on his forearms dissipated, although the gooseflesh remained.
"Nice warming charm, but what were those other two?" He asked, holding her close as they set out on no pathway, in particular.
He imagined she was smiling as she responded, "I made those nice brogues of yours imperturbable. Your cobbler will no doubt appreciate the effort." He looked down at her.
She wasn't smiling.
Draco gave her the silence to bridge the gap between them, but his patience was almost at his end by the time they made it a quarter way about the property, coming to the rough, green bluff above the sand.
Finally, she spoke; "I know it might come off as small, or petty; but I really can't tell you how it makes me feel that Ron knows something about Wizarding culture that I don't. And that's not his fault, it's yours, Draco. I was never self-conscious, never for a moment, for an entire year… It wasn't until you called me a mudblood that I began to feel embarrassed by my heritage. I was thirteen, and I finally found a place I thought I belonged… and the last time I mentioned it, you tried to… No, you more than made your amends for that, I'm not… I just, I want you to know that about me."
Her grip on him loosened and she twisted away from him to look him in the eye; but Draco was too scared of what he might find there, and instead looked out as the storm system hammered the horizon and the waves ravaged the shoreline. He supposed he was still a coward, and she didn't relent.
"So that's why I wanted to talk to you, because I appreciate everything you're doing, but you need to know- I grew up in a world where I didn't fit in. I wasn't liked by my peers, or by my teachers, even. My parents more than loved me, they cherished me- indulged me in that way I suspect you know, that way only parents of means can do by showering their one child in adoration and gifts and…" She rolled her wrists here, referring to the validation they had both grown up with, bestowed on them both, apparently, ad nauseam.
"But the one thing they couldn't buy me was real friends. I was, and continue to be, a little mature for my age, and really too opinionated for my own good. I was dismissive of other children's thoughts and feelings, because I thought I knew better, and that continued even after I came to Hogwarts… Until I became friends with Harry and Ron, properly. That was Halloween, and I had just turned twelve; that was the best year of my life. It came rather abruptly to an end a full calendar later, when you called me a slur and Tom Riddle set a basilisk on me, and people like me. To have you, to have you shame me for my parents, the two people who were my everything, and to have the school I'd grown to love turn on me like that, to try and kill me… You made me cry, Draco, you made me cry like no bully ever had before." He looked at her now, and couldn't convince himself that the reason her face was wet was because of his faulty charmwork.
"I've changed." He bit out. She smiled through the tears like he had made her proud of him again.
"No- you've grown. Are still growing, actually. Becoming the man you were always supposed to be, but- Draco, you still love your family, you're still proud to be a Malfoy. There's no… no path forward for what you want between us. You are who you are, and there's nothing wrong with that. What am I, to you, but a rebellion?"
Draco stood without responding, breathless and torn between indignancy and despondency. He thought he put these doubts to rest a week ago. He sucked in enough breath to strangle out an inquiry; "Why do you continue to question the legitimacy of my feelings?" She answered him with a sneer worthy of a Malfoy matriarch.
"Because they're obsessive! It's not healthy, you're not… you're in love with the idea of me, you don't actually know me, and I know next to nothing about you- except that you bullied me for years and you're rather quick with a wand."
Draco regained his breath quickly, moving on from the agony of the moment to action. Rather than respond immediately, he instead tugged her along, up the ratty knoll of reeds, towards the crest of the bank. He felt better up here, it felt… honest to place himself in as turbulent a setting as he felt inside. If he wasn't going to occlude in front of her, he figured he might as well be as transparent with her as possible, and overwhelm her with candor. Then he began to speak:
"I like apples, and sweets from the continent, the fine arts in general... but particularly sketching and music." Her answering snort seemed almost involuntary, and he couldn't even bother to be offended by the puff of her breath across his neck and jawline. Instead, he continued.
"I prefer the opera, definitely not the symphony, it's entirely not stimulating enough.-"
"What about ballet?" Hermione looked embarrassed to be caught curious. 'Perfect.'
"I suppose I'm a step above indifferent, I can appreciate the dancing, but sometimes the performance can feel flat without any dialogue-"
"It does not!" Her eyes were back to a boil again, and it was a look Draco favored above all others. He gave her a wry grin as he considered the accusatory slant of her thick eyebrows.
"Are you partial to it? The ballet, that is?"
She considered him for a moment before, "I danced as a young girl, I wasn't very good, but I liked it enough- when I didn't resent it for dragging me away from my books."
He nodded appreciatively, then appraisingly.
"That's too bad, I suspect you're dainty enough to lift and toss, although I wouldn't know first hand, my parents put me behind the bench of a pianoforte at five, and I wasn't allowed out from it until I was seven, for ballroom lessons, coincidentally."
"Eight."
He looked down at her in wordless inquiry. The marks of embarrassment that had been present on her cheeks matured into a full flush as she continued.
"I was eight when my parents put me in ballroom class. I was already taking lessons at the academy for ballet and jazz, both of which were my choice. They pushed for me to add formal ballroom on top of them, I think they were hoping partner dancing would work out better for me than ensemble on the friend front." The last admission was tantalizing in its intimacy, and Draco plowed on.
"I like new experiences, but don't particularly enjoy the idea of being dirty or tired, so I suppose I like the idea of it more than the actual experience. I'd like to travel, but from expensive hotel to expensive hotel, rather than aimlessly on walkabout. Which is why I like books. They afford me the ability to travel to deserts and mountains from the family library, in between the piano tutor and dinner... That's why I like you, actually. You make me think in a way different than I have my entire life, which is always a new experience." It was Hermione's turn to look away, but she couldn't stop the magnetism compelling the interaction, the dynamic energy between them.
"What do you want to be when you're older… after all of this?"
He was confused by the question, and the stall in the conversation was long enough that she turned an amused look on him.
"Never given it a moment's thought, have you?" She asked as if she had stumped him. All of a sudden, her meaning became clear, and it was as distasteful as it was befuddling.
"You mean to ask me if I've ever considered a career?" He tried to entertain the question seriously, but his tone incited her ire anyway.
"That's what I mean! How could this ever work, how would I even go about introducing you to my parents?! "Hello, this is Draco Malfoy, he works as a ...," you see here how the sentence trails off in an awkward way? What am I to say? That you're professionally wealthy and wish to be my boyfriend? After watching your father and Arthur Weasley come to blows on one of their first outings in the Wizarding World?" She was incredulous now, near hysteric.
Draco grasped her at the elbow and brought her close, belying the intimacy of their proximity with an easy grin. This was a time to be sly and firm, rather than hopeless and lovesick.
"You would tell him that I'm well-spoken, respectful, wealthy, a good man, really-" He was interrupted here by giggles, but he doubled down. "-and that I am the son of a loving union between a philanthropist mother, and a father who practices as a lobbyist for an unfortunately misguided interest group,-" Her laughter reached heretofore unheard peals, and she tossed back her head, letting the chestnut curls flirt with the sheet of water that cascaded off the side of his charm.
When she finally mastered her mirth enough to respond, her face shifted from a state of punch drunkenness to outright concern.
"A lobbyist? Draco, your father is a domestic terrorist; they have those in the muggle world too, you know. Also, I never even thought to ask, what happened to them?"
It was information he might have kept from her otherwise, but the knot in his neck that he'd forgotten in the elements returned with an aching snap. The bond compelled compliance on divulging the location of an enemy.
"In a small white stucco bothy, next to my favorite pond on the grounds of the Malfoy estate. The park is on eighty-five acres of land, and it's far enough away from the manor that you wouldn't come across it, in passing. We have their wands, and the elves are containing them there, bound to obey the patriarch of the family above all other members; a privilege that just so happens to be conveyed on whoever is wearing the family signet ring. I hid them to protect them, underneath his… well I don't suppose he has a nose to secret them beneath, but…"
Hermione's laughter returned at his jest, and she looked at him like she had never really seen him before.
"No, Draco, you're too late to be a good man, I think… But you just might be a great one."She turned back to the cottage, clearly intent on returning to the shelter, but Draco wouldn't budge.
"Does this mean you'll accept my attempt at courtship?" She looked back at him with a countenance that could have been carved of stone. Then one corner of her mouth lifted into the smile he had first seen at the Quidditch World Cup, years before.
"How do I even begin to explain muggle dating habits to you… Okay, how about this, I'll entertain that question if you've figured out what career I'd hypothetically be introducing you to my father as."
She was teasing him!
"You're prevaricating."
"Am not, I'm simply screening you to make sure your intentions merit my father's time."
The witch was having him on! 'Fine then.'
"If I am forced to choose… I suppose I'd always considered Healing to be a path worthy of pursuit. I fancied the idea of studying alchemy privately, and they both combine some of my favorite branches of- what's that look?" She seemed almost upset again, and all but tore herself from his arms as she fled the protection of their spellwork. The words that escaped from her amidst the torrential downpour were clearly not meant for his ears, as they were as distressful to her as they were encouraging to him.
"Of course you'd say that, God knows, my parents would never let me hear the end of it if I turned down a doctor!"
Harry's mood was not improved at all by the arrival of Malfoy and Hermione, who both looked as if they had been engaged in a race to escape the rain. The two sodden messes were being dried at the door by an overenthusiastic Fleur, who he had just been talking to about her sister when they burst into the parlor. He still didn't trust that Malfoy had declared his loyalties completely to their cause, on account of him choosing Hermione to be his bonder. She was too compassionate, and out of all of them, easiest to get the run around on. Perhaps it was a witches thing, as Fleur was admonishing them both for going out, alone and without coats.
Personally, he thought Fleur was beginning to pick up some of her mother-in-law's mannerisms and was strangely comforted by the thought.
As dinner was served and the party tucked in, he could see the hostess packaging up the tiara she had worn at her wedding, last summer. Griphook caught a glimpse of it too and made a comment that sparked off the animosity that kept the momentum in Shell Cottage constantly in the lurch. Soon, a sidebar between Griphook, Bill, and Ron, of all people, had started. Harry ignored it and decided to focus on anything in order to avoid his confused feelings about Goblin property law. Hermione looked similarly conflicted about the exchange, but Luna had commandeered the conversational vacuum on their side of the table to bring up her father's efforts in tiara craftsmanship.
Apparently, he was trying to replicate something of Rowena Ravenclaw by grafting different magical creature parts onto a headdress. Which, unfortunately, explained the erumpent horn. Sort of.
Harry was beyond shocked when Malfoy, of all people, inquired further.
"A diadem? I didn't know that Ravenclaw had a relic like that." It was the way he said the word relic that commanded Harry and Hermione's attention.
'Something of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs.'
Luna continued, none the wiser; "Yes, well I've never read about it in any book, oddly enough, but we know it exists! You see, she's wearing it on the marble statue of her in our common room. I think it's a right of passage to try and find it; since she left almost everything she owned to the school, N.E.W.T. students who are particularly despondent go hunting for it almost every year, right around the end of term!" She finished her clarification with a chirp of affection for the tendencies of her house and dug into her meal with glee.
Malfoy, the resourceful arse that he was, was onto something there.
They didn't know which Horcrux was waiting for them in the Lestrange vault, but Hogwarts held a way to get in, as well as a depiction of one of their objectives. And it would be far simpler than infiltrating Gringotts.
It was just Hogwarts. There were loads of ways to get in and out- Harry had slipped to and from the grounds when Dumbledore was headmaster more times than he could count…
A loud bang interrupted the thought, and by the time Remus Lupin had been identified, welcomed, and celebrated with; Harry had lost the plot completely. After Lupin had gotten over the shock of seeing a Malfoy at the dinner table, he had extended a tenuous invitation to the young in-law to visit. It seemed to cause the sodding bigot almost physical pain to accept, and he had agreed to when it was safe to do so. Which was clever, because that probably wouldn't be for a long time, yet. If ever.
It was only after the night culminated in being named godfather, like Sirius, that Harry remembered the decision he had come to over dinner.
If he hadn't been buoyed by good spirits, he might have never given the idea any outward consideration, however…. The meaningful looks Hermione and Malfoy were trading with each other, then with Harry, as the night came to an end helped ease the unchewed bit of pride that was stuck in his throat.
He didn't want to be a godfather like Sirius.
Harry wanted to be around for Teddy's childhood, and as he and Hermione (who snagged Ron's elbow,) offered to walk Lupin out, Malfoy made the necessary pleasantries and retreated to his root cellar for the evening.
After waving their former professor away, the trio made the descent into the converted cell.
The bastard had begun to renovate. A sturdy camper cot had been provided by Bill, but Malfoy had begun to transfigure odds and ends to suit his purposes. An armoire that bore the markings of a transfigured barrel here, a night table mirror that looked suspiciously like a glass bottle there, a floor transfigured to concrete, then partitioned and polished to look like tile. Harry was surprised it wasn't hardwood by this point.
Malfoy had evidently been expecting them, and was busy, transfiguring a bushel of carrots into plush, orange stools for them.
"Good evening. Leave your shoes by the door! I trust you were as stimulated by Lovegood's little soliloquy over dinner, as I was?"
Malfoy didn't have to say anything more for Harry to realize that, truly, there'd be no living with him after this.
Now let us see just how off the beaten path this plot can go.