Chapter 15
For the past several days, Draco had felt the pressure of time.
Urgency was inherent, and its weight grew with every moment wasted.
This was unsurprising: his colleague's soul was stuck in a mirror and a should-have-been-dead relative was joyriding in his body. Draco's responsibility for the safety of his employee—and the well-being of quite possibly his only friend—rested at the forefront of his mind.
Yet, for all of time's pressure, Draco didn't necessarily feel its passage.
His days had been full of experimentation, planning, and ad hoc visits to Azkaban. His nights had been blissfully silent, spent in deep, uninterrupted sleep with the woman he loved, and who seemed to at least tolerate him in return.
He could have passed five days or five years atop that hill in Naxos and would have neither noticed nor cared. For all the urgency and stress that filled Draco's days, there was also a measure of contentment.
Everything was going wrong, but nothing had ever felt so right.
And so the last thing he expected after Apparating to Diagon Alley was to learn that it was a Monday.
From their first fight with Brutus to now, only three days had elapsed.
The realisation seemed to take Hermione aback, too. Her fingers tightened against his arm as her eyes swept the streets.
It was the typical midday crowd, bundled appropriately for the cool, overcast October weather. Young professionals were out on networking lunches, talking at small tables at trendy restaurants, their smiles wide and bright. Their older compatriots, wizened by their time in the workforce, avoided the local hot-spots in favour of familiar haunts, where the clientèle was quiet and the prices reasonable. Stay-at-home parents, freed of their Hogwarts-aged children, tugged their young ones along on daily errands, pulling them away from Smiley's Sweet Shoppe and threatening reduced broom time for bad behaviour.
There was nothing odd about the scene, yet the normalcy itself struck Draco as strange. It reoriented him to the fact that their dilemma was theirs alone. It was not about the fate of humanity or the future of wizarding kind; it was about Mitchell, and Brutus, and what Draco and Hermione could do to set things right.
They existed in a microcosm of uncertainty that was insignificant compared to the world at large.
A world that had continued turning even though theirs had ground to a halt.
"Come on."
Draco dropped his hand to hers, relieved when she took it. Yes, she had requested that they put their relationship on hold. Yes, he had agreed. But hand-holding on a crowded village street was just good sense; he didn't want to lose her in the bustle.
They set a course toward Gringotts' white marble facade.
The bank's foyer buzzed with activity. Thin ledgers and parchment planes crossed the space like purposeful insects, snatched from the air by their quick-fingered recipients. A weaving path delineated by thick ropes of purple velvet wound patrons to the central node: a long desk staffed by goblins. A candle hovered in the upper right corner of each cubicle, the flame flickering from red to green based on availability, or puffing out completely if the teller stepped away.
Draco and Hermione joined a queue of perhaps ten people.
"Could be worse," he muttered. "At least we haven't—"
"Hermione?"
Hermione dropped his hand like it was made of dragon dung. Draco's stomach plummeted.
The Potter family approached.
Harry wore his Ministry robes, sporting the black-and-gold armband of an Auror who had moved his way up through the ranks. He held a hand at Ginny's back, though Draco had never known the woman to need any sort of external guidance. While not close, Draco had been on the receiving end of a particularly nasty Bat-Bogey Hex from her in Fifth Year. The experience had shaped every opinion he'd had of her since.
"Aunt Hermione!"
A young girl with auburn hair broke free from her parents and launched herself at Hermione's knees. Hermione staggered and put a hand against the girl's head. Her smile was genuine, her delight in seeing her de facto niece and nephew unmistakable.
"Hi Lily, Albus!"
Harry's miniature stood close behind his parents. His green eyes flicked up at Hermione's greeting, then back down to the multi-colored, rotating cube he fiddled with, the puzzle far more interesting than anything his aunt could offer. Draco bit back a grin.
If he only knew.
"It's been a while!" Ginny pulled Hermione into a one-armed hug, her smile bright. "We've missed you."
"Yeah…" Hermione said. Draco wondered if they sensed her discomfort, clear in her voice and shifting stance. "I've been busy."
"What are you doing here?" Harry was several octaves less friendly. If the direction of his glare was any indication of his irritation's source, Draco felt comfortable claiming full credit.
"We're here to… Well, he's here for his vault. I'm here to…" Hermione cut a quick glance over to Draco.
He gave her nothing; he wasn't sure what she expected.
Her expression of hope for help fell. "I'm here to help?" she finished weakly.
"Help." Harry looked between them, eyes narrowed. "You're going to help Malfoy. With his vault."
Ginny's smile took on a wicked bend as she nudged her husband. "Like you've never needed a little assistance downstairs."
Draco's cheeks flamed. Harry's ears turned red. Hermione looked like she wanted to disappear. Ginny's sharp laugh cut through the bank's background din.
"You both make this far too easy. We don't care why you're here, we're just happy to see you. Aren't we, Harry?"
"Sure," Harry said, looking like he'd just been forced to swallow a poisonous frog.
"We're heading over to Nudy's Café for lunch. Care to join us after you're done with…" She gestured between them. "Whatever you're doing? You need to hear all about James' first month at Hogwarts."
"Oh yes!" Hermione brightened. "He was sorted into Gryffindor, right?"
"Yes, he was." Harry puffed with pride.
Albus shot his father a look of deep concern. Draco knew that expression. He'd worn the same one countless times, staring at his father just like Albus stared at Harry. Yearning for approval, fearing it would never come.
Harry didn't seem to notice. Even Ginny, who Draco had always considered the brains of the couple, appeared unaware of the strife brewing within her son.
They would see it soon enough.
Draco hoped they gave their son the help and support he never had.
"Well, how about lunch?" Ginny looked among them and interpreted their hesitance for acceptance. "Perfect. I'll get a table for six."
"Ginny…"
For once, Draco agreed with Harry. Lunch was not a good idea; it could only end in awkwardness. But Ginny overrode them all.
"We'll see you soon. Come on, kids." She put a hand to Albus' back, steering him away. The boy no longer turned his puzzle game, but looked at it with misplaced worry, as if he was what needed solving. Lily gave another, clamping hug around Hermione's middle before breaking off to trot after her parents. Harry bent his head close to Ginny's as they walked away. Draco couldn't catch everything, but the bank's acoustics were good enough that he heard the phrases "Don't know why you're concerned," and "Everything looks fine."
Hermione watched them leave with slumped shoulders. "Well, shite," she muttered.
Shite indeed.
They queued up again, shuffling forward every few minutes as the goblins efficiently processed their customers' requests.
"We're not actually joining them for lunch, are we?" Draco asked.
"I don't see how we can get out of it," Hermione snapped. "And a fat lot of help you were on that front, by the way."
"What was I supposed to say? That my assistant got trapped in a mirror because he was tricked by my undead ancestor, and we're here to find a diary that might help us break the curse? Potter's an Auror. He would have arrested me faster than you can say Snitch."
"You could have said anything instead of letting me scramble," she groused, looking ahead. "I felt like a fool."
"They're your friends," Draco groused right back. "If you can't feel like a fool in front of them without judgement, then who can you?"
An annoyed tch shut him up, and they waited in silence until a goblin with the most magnificent poof of dark, curly hair and a flat nose beckoned them forward. Her name tag read Fease.
"State your business."
"Draco Malfoy, here to visit the Malfoy Vault."
Fease's dark eyes flicked to Hermione. Her hairless brow arched in question.
"Oh. I'm Hermione Granger, and I'm here to, ah, help?"
Fease paused a moment, weighing Hermione's answer. Then she looked back at Draco and held her palm out flat. Draco figured she had heard stranger justifications before.
"Key?"
"Right." With a complicated series of finger twists and wrist manipulations, Draco drew his family's Gringotts key from the ether. Fease scrutinised it with narrowed black eyes. She called over her shoulder.
"Denbit! A cart and a set of Clankers. Mr Malfoy requires a visit to his vault."
"Oh no…" Hermione's brow creased, mouth pulling into a frown. "Not the Clankers. I thought they did away with this practise…"
After Voldemort's defeat, there had been a strong societal push for Gringotts to abandon its use of dragons as guards for their high-security vaults. Opponents cited inhumane conditions and treatment, supported by Magizoologist research that postulated dragon intelligence to be on par with dolphins and crows. In response to the sustained pressure, the Gringotts governing board had issued a statement promising to assess alternate security measures for their oldest and most deeply buried treasures.
Apparently, that assessment—assuming it had been performed at all—had not yielded results worthy of implementation.
Draco frowned. He took her arm and pulled her aside, out of earshot of the watchful Fease. "You don't have to come down. You can meet the Potters for lunch, and by the time I'm done—"
"We'll have wasted four hours instead of two. I'm coming with you, Draco. But the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures will be hearing from me when we're done." She said this last louder; Fease looked nonplussed.
Draco's hand dropped to hers and squeezed. "Fair enough."
They followed Denbit—the bald goblin who had taken possession of Draco's key—to the back of the bank, where the infamous travelling carts waited empty on steel tracks. The cart door sprang open. Draco squeezed in beside Hermione as Denbit adjusted a series of levers. High-pitched squeals and resounding clangs echoed up from the darkness.
"I haven't been down to the vault in ages," he said as Denbit slammed the cart door shut.
"How long has it been?"
"Not since I was a child."
Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but her words were cut off by the screech of metal wheels unsticking. The cart rolled forward, and the bank's ambient light disappeared behind them as the security doors closed. Draco blinked to restore his vision, one hand gripping the cart's interior handle as they trundled into the bank's vast, underground network. His other hand held Hermione's.
"Do you remember the ride?" Her whispered question could hardly be heard over the clank-and-clatter of the cart's wheels against the track.
"Vaguely. More than the vault itself, at any rate. It starts slow."
They came to a precarious stop. The cart tipped beneath them, rocking like a dinghy in the ocean, suspended for the length of a single breath.
Then, they plummeted.
A scream caught in Draco's chest.
They dropped blindly into the darkness, nearly weightless against the cart's seat and gaining speed. The wind tore tears from Draco's eyes, which turned into tears of relief as they bottomed out. Hermione gasped as sparks flew from the tracks. Denbit steered, pitching them left, his canny eyes just as good in the dark as in the daylight. Hermione's grip on his hand tightened. She muttered curses as they travelled deeper into the earth.
Denbit's cornering became less precarious as they lost speed, at last approaching the high-security vaults. Dim torches spotted the walls, sporadic at first, increasing in regularity until they appeared on either side of massive sets of double doors.
Many were plain, hewn from grey stone with a roughly carved keyhole in the centre. Several had been charmed to reflect their owners' preferences. Pure white marble with an intricate gold locking mechanism. Thick wood banded with studded, black iron. Cold steel with a spoked handle, reminiscent of Muggle safes. The designs were ostentatious and useless: all Gringotts' vaults worked the same, regardless of how impressive they seemed.
The Malfoy vault wasn't much better. Though not as gaudy as some others, the doors were done in silver and carved stone, and the lock was emblazoned with the family crest. Beside the vault, a cave opening stretched from floor to ceiling, large enough for two bull elephants stacked atop one another.
The goblin eased them to a halt and looked over his shoulder with a cruel smile. Hermione's hair, already wild, stuck out from her head like a lion's mane, her curls blown and frayed into frizz.
A low grumble issued from the cave. Hermione's hand once again clutched Draco's arm, her fingers pressing firmly into his skin. A pale, scaled snout, its nostrils trailing thin lines of smoke, appeared from the darkness. Denbit shook the Clankers, and the curious dragon retreated. It didn't make a difference to Hermione: her chest rose and fell with quick, panicked inhales.
Draco helped her from the cart. Though Denbit gave the Clankers a desultory shake every thirty seconds or so, Hermione's eyes never left the dragon's lair.
"We won't be long."
Denbit shrugged and held the vault key out for Draco. He took it and approached the doors, Hermione following close behind. He held out a staying hand and lifted the key to the lock.
The magic activated. The locking mechanism pulled the key forward as if guided by an invisible hand. The key disappeared into the lock, returning to the hidden pocket of reality where it had been stored for centuries.
There was a series of mechanical clinks and clicks, then the vault opened with a quiet hiss of old air.
While many ancient families kept their fortunes in Gringotts, modern-era Malfoys did not use the bank for anything as essential as gold or treasure. Though independent from the Ministry in theory, the ties between Gringotts and the government had grown stronger since the bank's inception.
It was a relationship that directly correlated with Malfoys' growing mistrust of both institutions.
When combined with his family's history of racism against creatures like goblins, his ancestors felt there was ample justification to hide their gold and valuables somewhere only the family could find. Somewhere that would require a search warrant and a squadron of Curse-Breakers for the Ministry to access.
Yet Gringotts could not be wholly abandoned. Appearances needed to be maintained, and a high-security Gringotts vault was as much a status symbol as fine robes or glittering jewels.
As such, when Draco looked into the vault, he wasn't surprised that it had the look, feel, and smell of an old storage closet.
Beside him, Hermione frowned.
"Problem?"
"I was expecting…" She waved at the cobwebbed, half-empty bookcases and assorted generational detritus. "More."
"Sorry to disappoint. Do you want to start with the bookcase? "
She nodded, and they split up. Hermione headed to the first shelf on her left. Draco went right and began his search, combing through the eclectic collection.
A squat cupboard filled with what he chose to believe were desiccated plant petals and not pieces of human flesh. A stack of pink chintz plates so cursed he could feel magic radiating from them like a warning. A pair of boots and gloves, the black leather spattered with dried, red-brown mud—or what he hoped was mud. An inaccurate globe that showed five continents instead of seven. A worn saddle with a broken strap and two sets of stirrups. A gold birdcage containing a skeletonized owl.
The Malfoy vault was filled with horrors and, likely, evidence of three dozen crimes.
Draco paused before a collection of marble busts, craning to see over the sculpted domes of long-dead relatives. Two near the back caught his eye. He beckoned them forward with a finger.
The plinths of Brutus and Antonia dragged themselves into the light.
Brutus looked younger than Draco had imagined.
He knew from Lucius' story that Brutus had been in his mid-20s when he'd been trapped, a full decade younger than Draco was now. Seeing his unlined face carved in marble—a brow that had shaped Draco's own, a chin not quite as sharp—granted him a new perspective.
Brutus had been robbed. Not killed, but doomed, the good years of his life cut short for an infinite number of bad ones.
Draco understood his ancestor's bitterness. Could almost justify it.
Antonia had been young, too.
The sculptor had captured hope in her doe-eyed expression, optimism in the small upturn of her mouth. She did not look like a woman capable of torturing her husband. But perhaps these busts had been made early in their marriage. Perhaps if they had been commissioned later in their lives, after Brutus had cheated and Antonia routinely scorned, Draco would have seen something darker in the artist's interpretation.
"Come to test me again, have you?"
Ice crawled up Draco's spine as Mitchell's voice rang from the vault's entrance.
Brutus.
The question of how rose in Draco's mind, a mystery that confounded the one they were already trying to solve. Brutus' presence in Gringotts bordered on impossible. How had Brutus known that they'd accessed the vault? How had he accessed the key?
"Face me," Brutus said.
Threat dripped from Brutus' order like poison. It could not be ignored.
Draco would have to find answers later. He fought the urge to lift his hands in surrender and obeyed. Slowly. The last thing he wanted to do was goad the man into a duel.
Though with Brutus' wand already drawn and held at his side, perhaps a duel could not be avoided so much as delayed.
"And you brought your snake." Mitchell's eyes, eerily bright, shifted to Hermione. "How charming."
Hermione faced him, as well. Still at the bookshelf near the vault's entrance, she sidled backwards half a step. From his periphery, Draco saw her tuck a small, worn book into the waist of her denims.
Antonia's diary.
She had found it.