She looked for the book in under a day, crying in frustration when she couldn't find it. She toured through the manor every floor, every room, the cold eyes of prior Malfoys watching her from their portraits, but refusing to speak with her when addressed, some even muttering "mudblood" when she passed. After several days searching in her spare time she had to acknowledge that the book was gone and there was no getting it back, but still the allure of the language called to her. She began to research any mention of it she could, and as she did she began to catch hints of other things, reasons if not excuses for some of the strange beliefs in the wizarding world that as a muggleborn she had never understood.
She continued charity work and they made the obligatory social engagements, but Draco was more and more caught up in managing the huge conglomerate that was Malfoy Industries, as well as his seat on the Hogwarts board of governors, and his cultivation of friends within the Ministry. Hermione was left at loose ends more than she had been since school, and found herself delving more and more deeply into the Malfoy family history and the history of the wizarding world. She found more than one cache of ancient books in the huge structure that was Malfoy Manor, and with the assistance of the house elves she was able to bypass the blood wards that seemed to encase anything that might be loosely conceived to be of value in the house.
She was in the massive attic going through trunks that had to date nearly back to the sixteenth century when she heard it. At first she thought it had to be a music box or phonograph of some sort, but as she advanced she was able to distinguish that it was actually a voice, singing. It was hauntingly lovely, and she began to push through the detritus of years to find the source. It was over against a wall leaning into a dormer, faced away from the rest of the attic that she finally found it. It was a portrait, a very very old portrait, she saw almost immediately, and the resident gasped in shock as she hauled it out of the corner and into the light of a window.
"Oh my." Hermione froze as she looked at the woman in the portrait, and the portrait gazed back. She was incredibly lovely, almost unnaturally perfect with opalescent skin and brilliant grey eyes in a face with cheekbones so sharp they could seemingly cut glass, and gracefully upswept, pointed ears.
"Who are you?" they both asked simultaneously, then laughed together at the coincidence.
"I'm Hermione Granger, I live here with the current Lord Malfoy," Hermione said after the laughter died down. The woman in the portrait looked her over for a moment, then frowned.
"You do not look like the usual pale, insipid flower that marries into this line," she said finally. "There is much of my people in you, I think. From what clan do your ancestors hail?"
"Your people? Clan? As far as I know there are no elves in my family. I come from muggles," she confessed hesitantly. The woman gave her a smile and a knowing shake of the head.
"Perhaps you do not know, but I can see it. There is much of us in you. Wood elf I would wager, close to the earth, just as the males of this line are close to the air. Does the current heir still speak the tongue of his ancestors?"
"You're speaking of Ivernic, aren't you?" The woman inclined her head. "He knows the language, but it isn't spoken aloud. He says it's dangerous." The woman sighed and reclined back on the couch in the background of the portrait.
"All things are dangerous to those who are instructed incompletely. This language is his heritage as it is yours and many others who took people like my mother to wife. They wish to forget us now, though. Most of the others will not allow me to visit their portraits, but there are a few, and I have seen how the mighty have fallen. And what of you, Hermione Granger? Are you of a high born muggle family? It seems that the pomposity of birth is the only thing that matters to this family now."
"Draco says that it's been all for power and money for generations. I suppose it paid off for them, they are the richest wizarding family in Britain and used to have a huge amount of influence until they sided with Voldemort in the war. You did hear of the war, didn't you?"
"Oh yes, and I looked many times from the corners of portraits at the one who called himself the Dark Lord. Any one of my uncles could have spoken him out of existence with a single word. There is so much that has been lost. To see so many suffer because they put away knowledge that they feared is sad indeed."
"I'm not highborn at all, but Draco insists there must be something of the fey in my blood because I could begin to learn the language and not go mad."
"They are still teaching that old lie, I see. Know this, Hermione Granger, our language cannot cause damage where none is meant. Does he not realize that intent is necessary to do any magic of consequence? And if there must be intent then how can the lack cause harm? Shall I tell you a story? I have many stories, most of which are true. I can tell you why he thinks that our language will drive you mad, and I can tell you why the other portraits sneer and scowl and despise you and your kind."
"Would you like to be moved to a nicer place in the Manor while we speak?" The portrait woman looked so wistful that Hermione felt bad for her.
"A room with a window that looks upon a garden, perhaps? I have so missed the change of the seasons for such a long time."
"I think that can be arranged," she agreed and picked up the portrait. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Certainly. I am Alorica Malfoy-Slytherin."