'Your ancestors certainly knew how to do grandeur,' Draco said, looking up at the fluted ceiling of the south-wing corridor that Harry had dragged him along.
Harry grimaced, 'grandeur in foul colours. Do you remember the corridor was a horrible corally-red colour decorated with antlers and stuffed animal heads? I thought cream was better. Plus, I refuse to live in some kind of taxidermologist's studio so I vanished all the dead things. Most of them were moth-eaten and they all had magic eyes which followed you down the corridor. Henry told me it was his great-uncle's hobby.'
'Who's Henry?'
'My great-grandfather. I'll introduce you in a bit.'
'It's undoubtably looking a whole lot better. What's your plan with all these chairs?' he indicated to the series of chairs which were placed intermittently along the corridor along with two console tables, a grandfather clock, a quantity of porcelain vases, and a number of pictures stacked against the wall.
Harry shrugged. 'There's more of the same chairs all over the place. They all match so I assume they're for the main table instead of the benches, for when things get overbearingly formal and stiff.'
Draco snorted. 'Obviously that's not going to happen while you're lord of the manor.
'Fuck off,' Harry winced at the reminder. 'Do you think we should keep them?'
'Probably, benches aren't great if we decided to ever have a big dinner party that won't fit in the Breakfast Room. What about all these pictures?'
'I've started to gather portraits together. I've kept it to landscapes, animals, or still-lives in the bedrooms. And only ones that I liked. But if you disagree, well, I know you won't hold back! I think some of the artwork is hideous... or simply bizarre.'
Draco flicked through a couple of frames. 'Salazar, that's ghastly,' he muttered as he looked at particularly disturbing painting. One of a trio of people looked to be taking a scalpel to an old man's temple who was very definitely awake and looking anxious with a grimace and clenched fists.
'Henry says it's a Rembrandt called Stone Operation, but I don't believe him. I suppose I'll have to get it checked out though. He says there should be some paperwork somewhere but...' Harry looked particularly lost and Draco understood. His guess was as good as anyone's as to where it might be.
He showed Draco each of the rooms he'd done, all now bearing a brass plaque on the doors to signify they'd been finished. There was very little that Draco disagreed with. His comment still stood from before: Harry had surprisingly good taste when it came to decorating, repeatedly understated and minimalistic though keeping the traditional features of Beaumont Hall. He supposed Minerva probably had an incredible influence on Harry's choices growing up and Draco was beginning to truly appreciate what she'd done in taking Harry in and the qualities she'd instilled in the man.
'Good bloody afternoon, fellahs!' they were greeted by a deep booming voice as they neared the end of the corridor and the stairs up to the turret room at the end of the wing.
'Shit!' exclaimed Draco, jumping out of his skin.
'Ah! This is Henry, my great-grandfather,' Harry said, introducing Draco to the marble bust of a man sitting on a plinth. He had great shaggy hair and skin which crinkled around his eyes in the same way that Harry's did and the most ridiculous moustache. They were definitely related.
Draco wacked his arm. 'You could have warned me, you sod!'
Henry laughed, deep and resonating. 'Life, at bloody last. To think they've hidden me away all these years. Young Harry found me in a fucking cupboard.'
'I wonder why?' muttered Draco.
'I think he's very funny,' said Harry. 'I thought he could live outside mum's room; they'll get on like a storm.'
'Merlin!' mumbled Draco.
'I don't like being stuffed down the end of bloody corridor, young fellah,' thundered Henry. 'It's fucking tedious when no one's bloody visiting us. The damned scroungers.'
'I have a four-year-old son. I'm not exposing him to you yet,' said Harry, sternly.
'Why the fuck not? It would be a hoot! How do you think your father learnt about life at the hall? Not from my fucking boring son who like to faff around with his damned smelly potions! He produces one good potion and thinks he's bloody genius! And it was a damned hair potion at that! The fucker!'
'Oh gods,' Draco's shoulders were shaking. 'Look, we'd better get some lunch before it's all cleared away. We'll take our leave, Henry. A pleasure to meet you.'
'And you, young fellah. Look after my great-grandson, won't you? Otherwise, I'll get the House-Elves to cut off your dick when you're asleep and feed it the piranhas in the lake.'
'Piranhas are not native to Britain and they wouldn't survive in our cold water,' said Draco haughtily, leading Harry away.
'Bollocks, another fucking know-it-all...'
'He's been keeping me company half the morning,' whispered Harry. 'Seems he's unaffected by my magic.'
'Oi! Harry-fellah,' Henry shouted after them. 'You should get rid of all these bloody vases too, they're a monstrosity. Nearly eighty years of looking at the fucking things. I hate 'em. Throw 'em off the top of the north bloody tower. See how far you can get 'em and let me know!'
Draco smiled.
'I can't say I'm enamoured with them either,' said Harry.
'No,' muttered Draco, 'me neither.' Draco picked one up and checked the mark underneath. 'I think we should probably get an expert to check them first.'
'Don't bother trying to sell 'em. My sister Rebecca bought 'em in some fucking cheap-shite flea market, believing she had an eye for this sort of thing. She was bloody deluded. That was before she went off and married that Urquart fellah, the one who liked to wear skirts.'
'Oh, they're Minnie's in-laws. Kilts.'
'I know what a fucking kilt is, young-fellah. No, skirts. Anyway, these vases; they're all fucking hideous and probably fakes. I taught your father and young Sirius how to use a sling-shot on some of them but Fleamont always insisted on mending the bloody things.'
'What about Remus?' Draco asked.
'He didn't need teaching, he was bloody good crack shot, beat anyone and everyone hands down.'
'Remus? We are talking about the same Professor Remus Lupin?' exclaimed Draco.
'WHAT! They let that miscreant near children? Who was fucking mad enough to think he was responsible enough to be left in charge of children? I suppose it was that crack-pot, Dumbledore. He always did have a screw loose, that one did.'
'Look, just because he was a werewolf...' Draco defended but Harry was laughing. 'What?'
'You do remember that I just found an axe under Remus's bed? Apparently, he was the worst of the lot, hid it all beneath that scruffy, tired, meek look that made everyone want to nurture and mother him. Dad had the ideas, Sirius was the "yes" man, but Henry says Remus was the brains behind the outfit.'
'And Peter?'
'THE NAME "PETER" IS A SWEARWORD IN THIS HOUSEHOLD, FELLAH! TO THINK MY BLESSED SON OPENED HIS DOORS TO THAT FUCKING MALEFACTOR, THAT TRAITOROUS BASTARD, THAT USELESS, MURDEROUS PIECE OF SHIT. I SWEAR, NO ANCESTOR OF MINE SHALL EVER BEAR THAT NAME OR HE SHALL BE BLOODY SMOTE DOWN BY THE ANGER OF MY FUCKING AVENGING SOUL, SO HELP ME, MERLIN...'
Henry was still ranting as Draco and Harry escaped down the corridor and onto the gallery over the main hall.
'Don't mention the "P" word in front of him again...' Harry collapsed against Draco in laughter, once they were out of sight.
'It's good to see you laughing, though I think you should have left him in the cupboard,' Draco said, leaning against the wall and pulling Harry with him so they were wrapped in each other's arms, standing forehead to forehead.
'He's funny. He's been telling me stories about dad, Remus, and Sirius all morning. I get the impression they got on very well.'
'Your family's bonkers.'
'Don't tell me you don't have the odd eccentric ancestor in your family.' Harry's fingers seemed to have a way of unconsciously making their way into Draco's hair, idly playing with it in a way that sent shivers to the tips of Draco's toes.
Draco grimaced. 'Unfortunately, eccentric normally meant dark where Malfoys were concerned. Like Nicholas Malfoy, in the 1300s, who invented a spell to kill Muggles that made it look like the victims had died of the Black Plague. Or Brutus Malfoy, in the 1600s, who claimed he was a Warlock but there's no official records of such a thing, he's also rumoured to have had a bit of a thing for virgins and sheep, not necessarily together. A nasty man all round, even by my family's standards.' Draco brushed the back of his finger down Harry's pale cheek. 'I'm happy to have broken the mould.'
'I'm happy you have too. A swearing bust of my great-grandfather seems positively normal.'
'Salazar, are you intending for my mother to sleep in one of those rooms too?'
'Yes, and Dromeda. Need to keep the guests on their toes. What's happening with your mother?'
'You're evil. She's coming later, about two-ish. She told Ossy she needed a bit of time to consider your... our invitation.'
'Are you okay?' Harry asked, sensing Draco's unease.
'It worries me. Actually, I'm downright scared. What happens if she doesn't accept us?'
'Well, what's the worse-case scenario?'
'That she storms in here and tries to curse you... or me... but probably you...'
'But quite unlikely, considering there's a house full of people to witness it and, without blowing my own trumpet, I have defeated the most powerful Dark Lord ever and the wild magic is a bit crazy, so her chances aren't so great... Plus, there's that small matter of her saving my life and helping me win the war...'
'Stop it!' Draco smiled. 'I know it sounds silly now, but that's what I've been thinking since I got her reply.'
'Look, she showed her true beliefs in the end. Like you, she couldn't do it earlier. You know that. And you know what it takes to turn away from something so embedded in your belief system and your way of life. It was enough change back then. Now, she's probably overwhelmed by what she's facing; not just the reunion with you after two years but an invitation into my life too. That's a magnitude of change to face. France has been her escape from what she's been through. I can't imagine it's been easy, coming to terms with everything. Give her time, talk to her, be open. If you want me there, I'll be by your side.'
'I think it would be better for her if I take her out of this to explain what's going on. Just into the gardens, her and me. Maybe I should talk to Dromeda too, ask what mum was like a little girl, get to know more about what drove her decisions, what's still driving her.'
'Dray, it will be alright, I firmly believe that.'
'Maybe...'
'Shit, look, everyone's finished lunch and I haven't done the bookshelves. Come on.' He gave Draco a frustratingly insufficient peck on the lips and hurriedly shrunk the empty bookshelves that lined the gallery. They quickly gathered them up.
After Harry had moved the bookshelves through from the hall and re-sized them to fit the final space in the library, Hebe had set to with determination, even submitting to removing her long tweed coat. She had divided each subject onto the shelves and was determined that she would ask Mr Potter to create little plaques, just like the one she'd seen outside the room above the library when she poked her head down the corridor (just to see, of course). She could envisage each plaque with a subject area engraved on it so she could attach them to each shelving unit. It would help everyone immeasurably.
She also reminded herself to talk to Mr Potter about that door. It should be blocked off because she didn't want books escaping out of the library without her knowledge.
By the end of the afternoon, the first room of the library contained all subjects in the 'A's, plus what she classed as Biology, which was subdivided into Magical Creatures, Care of Magical Creatures, and Zoology much to Draco's delight at the sheer volume of texts, though he'd been determined to keep his own selection of books privately up in his study, which Ruby had transferred in its entirety from Grimmauld Place. He submitted to allowing Hebe to catalogue them at a later date. It turned out that Harry's Great-Uncle Charlus Potter (who'd married a Black), was a keen biologist and although some of the books were out of date, they had an extensive collection. Hebe had just started on 'Charms'.
It had been with a little satisfied sigh when she pulled the very first book from the first 'A' shelf and wrote in her catalogue index: 544.941 ARG: Argo, Pyrites, Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science, 1st edition (London: Rothschild and Sons, 1849), rare. With a gentle swish of her wand the index number appeared in debossed gold on the spine of the book and she gently placed the book back on the shelf. She didn't do any further books, not until they were all sorted, but at least she felt like she had started.
Yes, she felt like she had started controlling the books. Such tricksters, this Magical Literature; its books had a habit of switching disciplines or crossing over far more than should be allowed. And, if left to their own devises, they caused all sorts of trouble, especially if a book was placed amongst the wrong sort. It could absorb all sorts of incorrect magic and mess with its purity. It only took one word to change and chaos ensued. Control and order, she peered over the top of her glasses with disapproval at the disarray. The books could so be like naughty children and her stern look subdued a book of Apparation that was becoming a bit fidgety. It was still on Fleamont's shelves and she swished her wand, sending it through to the correct section in the 'A's. Ah, it was next to a Muggle book of Fairytales and was probably experiencing self-doubt. Not a comfortable situation for any book dealing with magical transformation.
She sighed. The Muggle books would have to have a separate home. Maybe the third floor of the turret so they were out of touch from the magical books. She didn't need them becoming flightly too.
She requested the help of Ronald Weasley, managing to crush the withering enamoured admiration when she was around him. Goodness, she chided herself, he may well be a famous Quidditch player but she was old enough to be his mother. Besides, she wasn't interested in that sort of thing. With his help, she retrieved all the Muggle books from the various shelves and piles of books everywhere and he carried them up to the top of the turret where they'd be safe. He even began sorting them for her and she left him to it. She would double check his work later.
When Harry, and he had insisted she called him Harry, had talked to her again, he was delighted with how she was getting on. She had blushed, overcome with a bashfulness which only made her a little more determined to do this right for the poor man. She had shown him the first indexed book. He grinned and said, 'brilliant!'. Then he offered her a job; a weekly salary for a set number of hours a day. It was only for a month but he said he wanted the whole library collection doing. She would have done it for free but she couldn't deny that the money was an added incentive and made her feel accepted for the unique talent she possessed. She couldn't quite believe how much money Harry was willing to pay, she argued him down, it was quite unreasonable to be paid so much. Eventually he agreed, despite clearly not being happy, and she was determined to prove her worth because he was still paying her too much.
'I've pulled out a text that might be of interest...' Hebe smiled tentatively at Minerva McGonagall who never seemed far from her son's side when he was actually in the house. It was strange not to call her professor. She had been very welcoming, remembering Hebe from all those years ago. '...it's on family tree tapestries, upkeep and restoration.'
'Ah!' said Harry. 'I was thinking about looking at the tapestry tomorrow, once I've done the portraits. I like your idea, Hebe. I'm going to create a gallery. I've started assembling the portraits from the rooms I've done.'
Minerva smiled softly at the younger woman, so wrapped up in her books. Not much had changed since her schooldays. Minerva smiled to herself, thinking, she's like a little mouse sometimes, well, in front of Harry she's like a little mouse, overwhelmed by his presence. The rest of the time, she's fearsome: one doesn't mess with her library or her books. She always did possess a different kind of understanding about magic; one that would probably be quite scary if her mind wasn't so intent on order. Minerva understood why Harry had practically hired her on the spot. She suited how Harry needed his world to be. In fact, Minerva was pleased, it took the responsibility from his shoulders, he was dealing with enough and such delegation was a sign of his maturity.
Hebe said, 'I think, if it's okay, I'll go and have a cup of coffee and then I want to finish sorting through the books on Fleamont's shelves before any more books get brought through.' She nodded and rushed away; her footfall silent across the wooden floor.
'I think she's rather taken with our little circle,' Minerva said. 'If not a touch overwhelmed by your greatness.'
Harry rolled his eyes. 'She'll get over it and then she's going to be hideously scary.'
It was while all this occurred that Pansy returned from the Ministry bringing news that she'd found out some more about both Ector and Stephan Potter. Although there was no mention of accidental magic; both had died in their mid-twenties and the estate had passed to the next sibling. The causes of both deaths were recorded as accidental but no details were given. She'd also found a William Potter who'd died in his mid-twenties too.
Pansy had then summoned Ossy and between them they had realised there was more information to be found within various journals of Harry's relatives. Letty's elderly mother, Gerty, was called upon as she had the longest memories of the hall and where things might be. After that, Gerty, Letty, Pansy and Luna went on a treasure hunt so try and find anything relating to Stephan Potter, they assumed little would have survived from Ector's days. William's things were thought to be in the tapestry room so they would tackle that separately.
***