Head Girl was walking beside him.
Or rather, trailing behind him, the inconsiderate prick.
Twice, on the way to the post office, she had managed to lose sight of him. And twice he had marched up to her, looking extremely annoyed, roughly dragging her forward by her elbow, and then stalking on ahead once again. Malfoy was treating her like a plague victim at the height of contagion. It had been so tempting to pick up a loose cobblestone at her feet and fling it and the back of his blond head, that she shoved her knotted fist into her pocket to quash the urge.
He had all but thrown her into the post office, shoved four sickles into her hand and told her to "be quick about it". Hermione had given him a look of what she had hoped was Extreme and Deadly Contempt, flung the money at his rude person and then took her merry time putting lies to paper.
She had emerged from the post office to find Malfoy already halfway down the street, purposefully heading for the public Floo facility located next to The Three Broomsticks. Gritting her teeth, she had followed, like a surly lamb led by an unwilling shepherd. And from there, they made their way to Thimble Creek, which situated south of the Malfoy estate.
Hermione had always been fascinated by the rich history that surrounded Europe's old wizarding manors. She chalked it down to being born a Muggle, and the feeling of otherworldliness she got every time she read about the really old families- the ones that could trace their lines back at least a thousand years.
It definitely would do something to one's ego, Hermione decided, to flip through the pages of a Magical History compendium and be able to spot numerous mentions of one's ancestral home. It wasn't just the Manors that had colourful tales to tell. Often, it was also the entire surrounding community.
Take Thimble Creek, for example. For nearly four hundred years, the occupants of the tiny, magical village had laboured for the Malfoy wizarding lords, aiding in the upkeep of the massive estate- working in the stables, attending to the gardens, grounds, orchards and vineyards - an entire population in voluntary, paid servitude.
Alas, the once industrious little village had been nearly deserted when she and Malfoy stepped out from the soot-choked fireplace of the local watering hole. The few, elderly wizards present at the bar had stared at them from over the rims of their steins. The looks directed at Draco were far from friendly, and for one worrying moment, Hermione expected a barrage of rotten fruit, or worse, hexes.
But the villagers had kept to themselves, and she and Draco boarded the coach to Malfoy Manor unmolested. If this unwelcome treatment had affected him, he didn' t show it.
She had a multitude of questions, as was her nature, but none seemed worthwhile enough to interrupt their momentary truce. For the time being, anyhow.
So many things had changed in the past year. The Death Eater Inquisitions had seen to that. The fortunes of the Malfoys had taken a severe turn following Lucius's very public outing as a Death Eater.
With Cornelius Fudge forcefully removed from his post, it hadn't been long before Arthur Weasley had stepped into the demanding role of Minister of Magic. There hadn't been a nomination for the position; rather, most other candidates of sound mind had valued their longevity enough to steer clear of the post. Even before the brass plaque bearing Arthur's name had been hammered into the door of his office, he had already sanctioned numerous raids and declared martial law for two whole months.
As a result, the only way to reach Malfoy Manor was to physically travel there by carriage. Floo and Apparition to the estate were Warded under the new Ministry regulations, now affectionately known as 'Arthur's Law'.
Under the new rules, and in exchange for 'sensitive and pertinent' information that aided in the subsequent arrest of dozens of Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathisers, Lucius Malfoy was made to serve a sixteen-year house arrest term. No wand, no magic, no friends and a rather nasty curse should he so much as stick his shiny head out the window to check on the state of his withering begonias.
Countless other former Death Eaters had also exchanged lengthy Azkaban prison terms for information. Many higher ups had questioned the efficacy of Arthur's Law, but the fact of the matter was that Azkaban was full to over-flowing and was decidedly less well