pictures of the house, of course. Everyone had. When the Death Eater inquisitions had begun, the papers had gleefully run a three-page spread on each of the alleged Death Eater residences every week.
Malfoy Manor had been particularly interesting, given that it was the second-oldest wizarding Hall in Britain. The mansion had also housed the most comprehensive collection of Dark Arts artifacts in Europe. All of which had been taken and catalogued. The more suspect items had been destroyed, while the worst items were stored in a Ministry vault due to the fact that nobody was certain about how to go about obliterating them. Hogwart's senior Defence Against the Dark Arts classes now involved an excursion to said vault, where students were taken on a tour of the confiscated Dark Magic items from various wizarding homes. It was a useful exercise, in that it showed them exactly the sort of twisted minds they were up against.
Seeing the Manor close up, Hermione noted that Lucius's house arrest had taken a dramatic toll. Without the use of magic in the upkeep of such a massive estate, the elements had run rampant. Creeping vines that had once been decorative were now in danger of suffocating the outer walls in a thick, green, smother of ivy. Dead, rotting leaves littered the front grounds. The previously luxuriously thick lawns were yellow and dead in places, and had grown tall enough to cover a small child.
The Manor was moody, gothic and ominous, but Hermione thought it beautiful. It reminded her of the old plantation estates in New Orleans, the kind she had seen on her last summer holiday with her parents. Draco's ancestral home was about twenty years away from qualifying as truly decrepit, but even then, Hermione was certain it would still have its allure. It wasn't hard to picture Lucius, Narcissa or Draco living there. Surely no wizard or witch too plain or unassuming could dwell in such a place.
With a panic-induced, mental giggle, Hermione imagined the doors admitting her, and then promptly spitting her curly, dark haired, non-pureblooded person out onto the gravel.
The combination of interest, fright and sweaty-palmed anticipation was a natural lubricant for her tongue, and forgetting Malfoy's decree that she remain silent, Hermione turned to speak to him.
He was frowning slightly. His hands, which had previously been folded in his lap, were now fidgeting with the brass buttons of his summer cloak. He looked worried, worried enough Hermione's only too eager imagination into overdrive. Her heart rate quickened.
Silver eyes met brown, and a brief look of silent, mutual fate was shared. She suddenly has nothing to say.
It was a pity that he was such an unapologetic wanker, Hermione thought, as the carriage came to a jarring, dusty halt in front of the Manor entrance.
Or she just might have held his hand.
Chapter Five
Send him Bobotuber pus-spitting Howlers. Lower him into a pit with rabid, blast-ended Skrewts. Set him against a Romanian Ridgeback with a cranky disposition and penchant for barbequed Purebloods. Hell, make him Neville Longbottom's personal slave for two God-awful weeks.
Just don't send him home.
Bit late for a change of heart, innit?
Yes, Draco silently agreed with his Inner Goader, much too late. Particularly since he and Granger were currently waiting in a moody silence, on the front doorstep of Malfoy Manor.
Draco rocked on the balls of his feet, his clammy hands shoved in his pockets. For a brief moment, he had entertained the fantasy of chiming the doorbell, leaving Granger standing on the doorstep, and making a mad dash for the carriage that was lumbering back towards the main gates of the property.
As if reading his mind, he felt Granger slowly turn her curly head to stare at him beadily, before inching almost imperceptively closer.
If she was scared, she was doing a bloody good job of hiding it. Apart from the telltale wringing of her hands, which he knew she tended to do when nervous anyway, she looked outwardly calm.
Their journey to Diagon Alley had been uneventful. She seemed to be handling things better than he would have guessed. Draco expected tears and blubbering, which was why he had deliberately kept his distance from her (and her seemingly endless supply of incessant, prattling questions).
And Merlin, did she have questions.
At one point he had been sorely tempted to gag her with her own peach coloured satin and lace underwear. He had unearthed the underwear from beneath a pillow in the hotel room and had neglected to mention the fact, preferring to