She stood facing Draco's house, shivering in the cold as the constant erratic pounding of rain fell on her head. The knocker in the shape of a snake seemed to be staring at her, taunting her as she contemplated making her presence known. She couldn't turn away, couldn't disapparate, couldn't move a muscle, caught in her staring match with the knocker. Far too many times she had been caught here in varying degrees of weather and temperature, wishing, wanting, hoping, praying. Seasons moved around her and her eternal debate. Hermione stood for hours, staring at the snake knocker, shivering in the rain.