A/N

Just a quick note that update e-mails have not gone out in days so if you are reading this, make sure you caught 19 and 20! If you need to go back and catch up, go ahead, I'll wait here :) And, regardless of how far along the story is, if you go ahead and review them, I'll still gush at you!

Hermione fidgets as she waits. She fidgets her feet, shuffling her weight from one leg to the other. She fidgets her hands, picking at the skin of her cuticles with the nails of her other hand. She fidgets with her face, tongue sweeping out to wet the corners of her mount, intermittent with her teeth biting her bottom lip.

None of it is terribly becoming, her mother would have said. A lady does not fidget. Her father might have added, a Granger does not fret. And, they would have agreed, Hermione certainly should never be so visibly nervous as to put her audience in a position of power.

Hermione misses her parents a great deal; today more than ever. Today, Hermione is standing on the steps of the infamous Malfoy Manor. She's only been here once before and the circumstances had not been ideal. Bound by strong arms, defenseless without her wand, and afraid for her life, the last time she had seen this structure, she was in very real danger of being Avada'd by Tom Riddle, in all his snake-faced glory. Instead, today, Hermione is fidgeting as she waits for someone to answer the door, intentionally seeking entrance into the home.

She's been planning this for weeks. After Draco's last message, she had held the pen over the paper for what seemed like hours. Everything he had said, vanished from the page, kept coming back to her. She wished she could read the words again and cursed the nature of the charmed book. She started to second guess; to reconsider. For days she tried to remember his exact words and determine how she should move forward.

Her initial reaction was that he was dismissive, but she knew that couldn't be right. She'd seen his face fall, the day she called him Greg. She'd seen the torment cloud his features before his flawless mask shifted back into place.

Was he simply over her then? Had a week given him some sort of clarity that led him to conclude she wasn't what he wanted? Or was he so angry he couldn't write what he might want to say? It had been so abrupt and sharp and hollow all at once.

So Hermione did what she does best: She made a plan. Her first step was to contact Kingsley Shacklebolt. It took some doing, but she convinced him she needed to know when Draco would officially be able to receive visitors as the Lord of the manor. He was reluctant to tell but she pulled the "Harry Potter" card and the "Famous Muggleborn" card and the "I gave up my parents for your war" card and eventually he capitulated. From there it was a matter of focusing on her yearend testing and finding a way to locate the nearly unplottable Malfoy Manor. Daphne Greengrass was actually very helpful on that front.

"You want to talk to Draco?" She had asked, eyeing Hermione from around Harry one morning at breakfast. "Why?"

Hermione had exchanged a look with Harry before she took a breath and answered sincerely, "I owe him an apology. I did something… misjudged him. And I'd like to apologize to his face. He deserves at least that."

Daphne had glared for only a moment before Harry had done nothing more than stroke one knuckle down her cheek and she had shrugged with a smile. "Sure. I mean, if you're up to something dishonest I'll just take it out of Harry's hide. And by that, I mean I'll not be touching Harry's hide for an undisclosed amount of time. I'm sure he'll make certain you're on the up and up."

Harry had raised his eyebrows at Hermione. "See what a good friend I am? I'm trusting you not to cock block me."

Hermione had laughed and Harry and Daphne had joined in. Ginny Weasley glared from down the table but swiftly returned her attention to the sixth year on top of whose lap she was seated. Ron nudged Hermione to pass the pumpkin juice and "hey, can I have that sausage" and everything seemed like it might be alright.

Except of course her dreadful situation with the boy she loved dearly.

In the here and now, It's probably a short wait really, but it seems to take an eternity before a wrinkly house elf swings the door open and enquires, "Can Pipsy be of service, Miss?" She's waited weeks for this moment. What felt like hours outside on the front step, and now that it's here she pauses for a moment not believing she might finally see him.

Hermione blinks down at the elf. It doesn't even bring up its eyes to meet her. Poor thing is probably beaten and starved and told never to look directly at its betters. She offers a kind smile and says, "My name is Hermione. Hermione Granger."

Suddenly the eyes snap to hers and the little creature seems awed. It seems her reputation precedes her. "Pipsy, you said? It's a pleasure to meet you Pipsy. I wonder if you've ever heard of my campaign to strengthen the rights of-"

"Unnatural witch!" Hermione pulls back, standing up right and taking a step back from the threshold. "Evil witches will take Pipsy from his home! Oh foul, nasty girl!" He covers his head with his hands and continues to shriek at her, begging for mercy in the face of her offending knit-ware.

Taking a step forward, she offers her hands, palms up in a nonthreatening stance, to sooth the elf. "No, no! I'm not here to take you away, Pipsy. I promise, I'm not going to do anything-"

The elf's protests and Hermione's placations are interrupted by a drawl from across the entry way. The voice echoes against the high ceilings and marble floors and both Hermione and the elf fall silent.

Lucius Malfoy, aged since she met him and leaning more heavily on his cane, still cuts an imposing figure. His voice is clear even as it is dangerous and low as he had agrees, "Correct, Miss Granger, you will not be taking my elf anywhere." He continues to move closer, taking strong, deliberate steps. His need for the cane seems to be less and less as he approaches, bringing himself to his full height and locking eyes with his unexpected guest.

"Mister Malfoy," she begins, but gets no farther as he speaks.

"This is indeed a surprise, Miss Granger. I'd not have thought you'd venture here again after your last... unfortunate visit."

Her eyes narrow. She doesn't care for his haughty and condescending tone, nor his obvious attempts at intimidation. "I assure you I could do with never making a return trip."

"So leads us to the obvious question: Why have you come?" He's now standing fully in front of her, the house elf having made itself scarce in deference of his master. They are nearly toe to toe, each on their respective side of the door frame, both holding their postures tall; like a couple of puffed up birds trying to make themselves seem larger than they are.

"I've come for Draco, if you would please let him know I'm here."

The look on his face, if Hermione lives to see two hundred years, is one she will surely remember. Incredulity and surprise on his normally polished and stoic features is enough to make her nearly stifle a giggle. It quickly morphs, however, into cold fury.

"Why could you possible need to see my son? I do not appreciate his being under continued scrutiny. He did not finish his year but we were assured by the Minister himself that he would not see any additional charges. I don't know who you represent, some Muggleborn reparations committee I'm sure you dreamed up, but you will not use my heir as your scapegoat to further whatever political aspirations-"

"Wait just a moment!" Hermione holds out her hands and waves them in the universal sign for 'slow the bloody hell down'. "I'm not here to... to... bring complaint. I just want to talk to him."

Lucius eyes her curiously before he seems to decide and shakes his head. "I'm afraid, Miss Granger, I am under no obligation to let you into my home. If you would please..." He gestures behind her, indicating she should make her way elsewhere.

Hermione digs in her feet and lifts her chin. "I didn't expect you to be hospitable. It's fortunate for me I came to see the Lord of the manor. According to Ministry records, in light of your incarceration, that is not you."

It's all she can do not to look smug as his eye twitches. His piercing grey eye, so similar to Draco. "Shall I call for the house elf?" She asks. "Pipsy?"

The elf pops back in, looking wary between the witch and wizard. "Pipsy doesn't want any trouble miss. Pipsy certainly wants no hats! No hats!"

"I'm fresh out of hats, Pipsy. I'm a guest at the manor who has come to see your master. I request you inform him I'm here. I'm happy to wait at the door."

The little thing groans and hangs his head. "No..." he sighs, "is not proper. Guests never to wait outside." He gestures with his thin arm to the right limply. "If miss would please follow Pipsy," he requests, resigned.

Shouldering past Draco's rather irate father, she follows in the elf's wake and says as pleasantly as possible, "Thank you so much for your hospitality. I'll be sure to mention to your master how aptly you serve him."

Well, that perks his large ears right up. He murmurs an awed "thank you" as he leads her into a small sitting room. Small, she assumes by the standards of the manor. Nowhere near as large as the virtual ballroom where she met her torture, but still as large as any room in her parents not-unimpressive home.

She represses a shudder, remembering the drawing room. It is one moment a grand spectacle, crystal chandelier glancing tiny prisms on the marble floor, and the next moment in her memory, a mess of broken shards and her blood staining the floor.

"Pipsy will inform Master." The elf is away with a Pop! and Hermione busies herself with scanning the knick knacks in the room. Knick knacks, she considers, that are probably in actual fact, priceless antiques and heirlooms. She takes a seat on a silk upholstered bergere. Its companion sits on the other side of a high table with intricately carved legs and an inlaid top. Fresh flowers, Narcissus, fill the room in vases that she is more than aware will not be reproductions.

She waits for what feels like another rather long time. Finally she hears the click of expensive shoes on the floor approaching the room. It's not Lucius. The sound of the elder Malfoy's gait is given away by the clink of his cane tip and the unsteady delay of his leg. She likewise doubts it's Narcissa, not having the delicate quality of a lady in heels. Hermione feels her throat tighten and her breath quicken and the result of which is she feels she is not supplying enough oxygen to her brain and, Sweet Merlin, what is she going to say?

She stands then, staring at the door as it starts to open and right back where she started: Fidgeting.

A/N

So I said this story would end this weekend but I forgot in my calculations that I am flying to Baltimore today so it looks like we will stretch into next week a little. Hopefully the updates are fixed and you are reading this! Next update should hit Sunday. Please favor me with some reviews in the meantime? I look forward to hearing from you! Thank you so much for your kind words and support thus far!