Hermione cooked in near-silence, murmuring her thanks at his work on the mise en place. When she put a bottle of red in front of him on the work table, she felt ready to talk again,
"Sorry about that, I haven't had a lot of human interaction lately. I think I needed a break from talking."
He had quirked an eyebrow at the wine, his upper lip the tiniest bit raised at the label, and she couldn't stop a feminine snort at his facial expression,
"Don't worry Malfoy, this one is for cooking with." His near-sneer immediately cleared, giving a chuckle of his own,
"Sorry Granger, but there are some things I am still a snob about, and booze is one of them. Am I expected to open this?"
"Yes please. The church key hurts my hands." She gestured to the corkscrew on the tale. This time his crows feet crinkled, and the brow was decidedly quizzical,
"Explain." His tone was clinical and professional again, he was clearly assessing this information as her de facto Healer. She felt like she ought the have a bit of whiplash from all the abrupt changes in his tone, but as he didn't seem to notice, she acquiesced with the truth,
"I have mild rheumatism in my fingers. Tight squeezing and fine motor function like doing up small buttons can be painful sometimes, mostly first thing in the morning and at the end of the day."
He nodded. Perhaps he knew that it was a common side-effect of the Cruciatus, or perhaps he thought it was congenital, or the result of some past injury. She didn't think she wanted him to confirm what he knew.
He opened the wine, she cooked. Malfoy inquired as to where he could find some 'decent' wine, and she had chuckled as she pointed out the trap door in the floor to the wine and root cellar. His patrician features were momentarily hesitant, but he'd gone down anyway. When he'd emerged, she was plating and he'd found an incredibly dusty bottle of Beaujolais.
When he'd done the dishes with his wand, Hermione realized they'd not only had a civil, but an interesting bit of academic debate over dinner. She wanted to read in front of the hearth in the parlor for a bit before bed, but he'd pulled a face and said she should go back to bed. He headed for the parlor as if to camp out there though, and that had chafed her sense of proper hospitality.
"Malfoy," her tone had been too hard, he'd given an infinitesimal flinch so she softened it, "there's no need to sleep rough down here. There's a guest suite upstairs. Follow me."
...
Draco knew it would be rude to protest, so he followed. It was well into the evening, and he'd woken up before dawn. He was suddenly aware of just how knackered he was.
The door was down the hall from hers, over the potions workroom if he had guessed correctly from the lingering herbaceous smell. This room was arranged much like hers, it had the same white trim, but with more masculine caramel colored walls. The bookshelves were smaller, dominating only the walls facing the hall instead of the corners, the reading chair was a rich ivory velvet. She pointed to a wardrobe and stand mirror next to the window overlooking the back garden where her room had the window seat,
"There should be some pajamas in there. If not I'm sure you can Transfigure something."
"Thanks Granger. Goodnight."
"Goodnight Malfoy."
There were a set of Turkish cotton pajamas, and it was while buttoning up the sleep shirt that he had two simultaneous and sleepy thoughts:
One: every textile in this house looked simple, classic, and inexpensive, but was in fact the most luxurious version of itself. It was the kind of quiet wealth that his mother approved of aesthetically whilst draping herself in silks and furs when his father was alive. Lucius had always preferred more visual status symbols, but his mother was more understated. Sure, she'd grown used to ball gowns and diamonds at her husband's behest, but since he died, she wore simpler stock. He hadn't been able to glean much from Granger's jewelry, but his mother's game had just backfired and told him something about her, instead.
Two: Hermione Granger was wealthy. Not the 'raised without an awareness of my familial wealth' like Potter who had to be wrangled into a suit by his wife. Not the 'newly awarded Order of Merlin First Class' or decidedly 'Entrepreneurial Bourgeois New Money' of Ronald Weasley wearing brightly colored silk shirts that suited neither his frame or his coloring. No, Hermione Granger came from older money than that. He wondered if it was one generation's worth—it was his understanding that Muggle dentistry was a respected and well-paid occupation, similar to that of a specialist Healer in Wizarding Britain—or if it was like his: Old Money. Could it be possible that if the differences in their birth according to The Sacred Twenty-Eight hadn't existed, that the circumstances of their upbringings would have made them social equals?
The thought kept him awake for some time after he laid down. When he finally decided to ask in the morning, his brain finally stopped whirring, and allowed him rest.
...
Hermione could tell he wanted to ask a question.
It had been nearly an hour since she slogged her way downstairs for coffee to find him already installed in her parlor, drinking what appeared to be his second cup of Assam tea. He was still in the guest pajamas, barefoot, reading a book, but his eyes said that he was only skimming, not comprehending the pages in front of him. She'd obviously only ever seen him in pajamas in the Great Hall in third year, so it took her a moment to look past the informality of his dress. Though she could mentally note that had he really been relaxed, he would have made quite the handsome image.
He'd not bothered to glamour over his tattoos yet, and the way they ran down the corded tendon lines of his hands, and his feet, she now noticed, implied that they were extensive. She shook off the mental question of just where, and how much of him, they covered. His right foot, propped with lazy grace on his left knee, was bouncing ever so slightly. His shoulders were pulled up a fraction of an inch from their natural position, like he was trying to physically hold in a gulp of air, likely loaded with whatever he was so curious about. Hermione knew that holding in a curious, if possibly rude question could be nigh-on physically painful, so she endeavored to put him out of his misery,
"Just ask, Malfoy. I don't think you can physically take holding it in any longer."
She knew her tone was a bit snide, but she'd only had one cup of coffee, and there was only so much she could do about her mood in the morning. Dissatisfying sleep made her cranky, and she never really felt like she got enough sleep anymore to feel truly rested. He exhaled gustily and looked her in the eye for the first time all morning,
"You're brusque in the morning." It wasn't a question, or even really a judgemental statement. Hermione thought his tone implied more that he was surprised by this information.
"Not before, but yes, now I am. I don't sleep well, and it makes me irritable. Anything non-sentient that wakes me up, like an alarm clock, usually ends its existence by being thrown into a wall at some point. Sentient beings that wake me get glared at rather badly. Usually songbirds. They've no right whatsoever to be that happy and chirpy first thing."
It was more than she'd meant to say, but none of it was untrue, so she didn't blush, or clamp her mouth shut after the fact. He was chuckling. Apparently, he could relate to her distaste for mornings, despite the fact that he'd been up for quite a while. He'd taken a deep inhale and his foot was now positively vibrating, then suddenly stilled as he began to speak,
"Were your parents wealthy?" She nodded. She didn't want to explain about dentists, but he nodded back as if he had figured as much and knew enough about the profession to make an estimation of their income.
"Do you come from Old Money?" She could tell the letters were mentally capitalized from his tone, and she held in a slightly bitter laugh. It came out anyway as a snarky chuckle.
"Yes, Malfoy, I do. Why do you ask?"
"I was wondering if the pureblood bullshit hadn't existed, whether or not we would have been social equals based on wealth." She agreed that blood fanaticism was a crock of shit, and was pleased to think that he had arrived at the same natural conclusion over the last four years. She instead pondered on money for a moment, brows furrowed as she worked out the numbers in her head,
"Considering the exchange rate between a Gourde, the Franc versus the Euro, the British Pound, and a Galleon, it's possible. I know of your family's wealth only in abstraction, so I couldn't say, and I'm not going to ask." He chuckled, but gave no explanation for his amusement.
"The Malfoy wealth is diversified, but our old wealth comes from land ownership, agricultural leasing, and king-making." It was her turn to chuckle,
"The oldest money from the House of Granger is not nearly so reputable, so it's likely that while we could have been social equals based on maths alone, you would still be viewed as a social better." His responding tone and smirk was the kind of light ribbing she was more likely to expect from Harry or Ginny, but it didn't feel as disturbing to be on the receiving end of as she might have otherwise assumed,
"May I inquire as to the nature of that disreputable, foundational wealth?" She laughed aloud now as she knew the answer was likely to shock him, then answered as if discussing the weather on an overcast afternoon,
"Piracy, and it's associative trades."
Her bland tone had been worth the effort, if for nothing else but his flabbergasted expression. To anyone else, his eyes may only have widened a fraction, but for him it was practically googly-eyed. She held in a belly laugh and gave him a smirk reminiscent of his own over her second builder's mug of coffee. It was clear he would need an explanation, but she wanted to watch his face as he reasoned it out, so she gave him a vague clue,
"Grann's estate is on la Île de la Tortue—Tortuga."
The resulting fractional parting of his lips a moment later might has well have been slack-jawed and fish-like. The belly laugh escaped her finally. This was officially the highlight of her morning.
...
Narcissa Malfoy would have been proud of the side-stepped answer about his family's net worth being abstract to her. It was exactly the sort of thing one didn't discuss in polite company in finite terms, if one had the social standing to know better. Their tête-à-tête continued, he could feel himself smirking a bit and using a teasing tone usually reserved for friends, but didn't stop himself. The mental spar they had going felt natural and comfortable, despite their rather horrible history. He couldn't help thinking that this was natural, the result of years of heated bickering having gone soft with years of age and experience.
She kept breaking his facial façade of impartiality with the things coming out of her mouth. Her smirk told him that she was wickedly amused, just by telling him the truth. It had been somewhat embarrassing yesterday, but it was fast becoming amusing this morning. He found her rather liked her full mouth set in smirk that could be sardonic or lethal at a moment's notice. He found he liked her loud laughter, and being the cause of it, when he imagined he ought to be mortified about looking like a fish out of water. This was the kind of teasing, conspiratorial ease he felt sometimes with Ginevra Potter and sometimes with the Boy Wonder himself, but it wasn't quite the non-judgemental ease he felt around Blaise. That had taken years, and was the hard-won trust of reluctant lovers. This was past the polite machinations of acquaintance, so perhaps this was friendship. Perhaps he was friends with both Mr. and Mrs. Potter. Perhaps he ought to accept the next dinner invitation.
Granger had been saying something, but he'd missed it with everything else he'd been thinking about,
"Come again, Granger?"
"I said, I know that the Malfoy family history in England goes back to Hastings, but tell me more about this king-making business of yours." It was his turn to give a bark-like laugh from his navel up.
He uncrossed his legs, set the book on the side-table, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees in an air of secrecy. He even looked furtively to his left and right, then spoke like he was giving an academic lecture, albeit from a posh perspective,
"It goes back further that that, Granger. My family went to Normandy with Gaange Hrólfr, also known as Rolf The Walker, or Rollo. We did not bear the surname ' Malfoy' at the time, we used the Viking surnaming standards of the day."
She sat up straighter, like she had in school, and he wouldn't have been shocked if she'd pulled out parchment and started taking notes, but she didn't. He'd paused too long apparently, because she looked near-to-bursting with curiosity,
"Well you can't just leave it there! Tell me about it?"
"Only if you promise to explain this piracy business."
"Naturally."
So she poured him a third cup of tea, and he'd told her. Told her about Håkon Gráðvaraug Thorsson, who'd had a daughter named Sprota with a Breton woman after arriving in Normandy, and went on to have two further sons. He looked up to see her eyes like globes, and he gestured for her to speak as she was clearly restraining herself from interrupting,
"Sprota, the more danico wife of William the First, was—" He interjected,
"Sprota Håkonsdóttir, daughter of Håkon 'Silver Eye' or 'Spear Eye', depending on linguistic interpretation. May I continue?" She nodded with fresh determination to listen.
He went on to explain that Sprota had given birth to Richard I, William had died, and she had later married Eperleng, and begat Rudolf d'Ivry. He explained that the family inherited Chateau d'Ivry via Sprota's brother Gunnar, his son Magnus Gunnarsson inheriting it because Rudolf's daughter Emma, and her husband Osbern didn't want it. How Magnus' son, Lucian Magnusson was the first given the epithet 'mal foi' for refusing to convert to Christianity. How Lucian starting using the epithet as his surname because the Viking naming system was going out of style in Normandy with the popularity of the New Religion, because it sounded more imposing, and because he hoped to wear the slur like armor.
She'd reacted to this information by rubbing her palm over her left forearm, where he knew a slur lived on her body too. Best not examine that line of thinking too closely.
He explained that Lucian's son, Aemilius, meaning 'rival', had been raised to the surname Malfoy. How Aemilius was similar to Lucius, in that he'd been against Robert I, and hoped his son would be the same. Aemilius was not pleased with his son, Armand Malfoy, who supported Robert's son, William the Conqueror, and was given the land in Wiltshire as thanks in 1066. He went on to explain that the nearest town to the Malfoy family seat was Calne, which had been founded in 978AD, the site of early Anglo Saxon court of Witenagemot.
When he'd finished, he'd gone to take another sip of his tea, only to snarl at the cup when he found it empty. She'd been absorbing everything, so he'd stalked to the kitchen for a refill. He was vaguely aware of her following him into the kitchen and refilling her Muggle coffee mug to his left, when she asked a question that sounded more like a statement,
"So your family never gave up the Old Religion?" This was a question that in a public forum could have been incredibly damaging, but she had hesitated asking as if she knew that already, and per her moral code, should likely keep it to herself,
"No. But I would prefer you never mention that I confirmed this fact."
"Of course not! The Wizarding world in Europe may have closed itself off to Muggles to stay safe, but enough Christianity worked its way into the culture that the Old Religion was viewed as suspicious."
"And several of the old holy Rites were outlawed by the Ministry over time. It's part of why my family has always been viewed as Dark—and why we have historically been sorted into Slytherin—we were all raised to the Old Faith and we knew we needed to protect that fact from others while serving our own ambitions."
She sipped her coffee, brows furrowed again. He waited, sipping his own tea.
Granger gave a clipped nod when she had clearly arrived at a mental destination,
"Grann and Dad and I aren't Christian either. Mum is an Anglican—well, I imagine they both are now. Henri Granger was raised by a vodou prètre, after all, but Wendell and Monica Wilkins of Sydney, Australia, are likely bored Anglicans."
"Back up, Granger, are you telling me your Grann is—" he found himself setting his tea down for fear of spilling with his sudden need to move, his mind racing,
"Let's go get dressed, Granger. I have the feeling I need to take a walk to absorb everything you're about to tell me." She smirked again, and walked up the stairs.