A/N: It has been a rough two months. I have been in a not-good place mentally and creatively. Thank Merlin for amazing people in the fandom. I've had a couple people who were suspicious of the fact that I managed to keep my mouth shut on social media, and reached out. You know who you are and you're amazing. Thank you for being a part of this fandom and being you.

The cherry on the top of my fml sundae is that my grandpop passed away last Sunday. He was 94, hardcore old-school, tougher than nails and more ornery and stubborn than any one man had a right to be. I adored him and I think it still hasn't sunk in yet. Because of his underlying health conditions-we haven't seen my grandparents since March. So it's even harder because it doesn't even feel real.

It was *hard* to write family drama when I'm struggling through my own convoluted family feelings.

As always, Auntie_L is pure and good and amazing. I'm so lucky that she's willing to deal with me on a regular basis.

Apparently, Claridge's was discreetly divided into two distinct hotels—one serving disgustingly wealthy Muggles and one serving disgustingly wealthy wizarding folk. They had small conference rooms that they were willing to book for clients. It was public enough that Hermione felt safe and private enough that her personal business wouldn't end up on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Or at least not any more than usual.

The caveat was that one needed to both know about Claridge's magical side, and be disgustingly wealthy enough to pay the rental fees, so Hermione Granger with her meagre bank account wouldn't have had the ability to make such a request. Hermione Malfoy could, certainly, and that was a point that Hermione planned to remember.

Semi-private conference rooms would probably come in handy for a revolution. It felt like quite a step up from the Hog's Head Inn. That had been far too public, and Hermione had been in a constant state of worry about Umbridge and Ministry spies during Harry's initial D.A. meeting. This… this was something she could work with easily. She made a mental note to speak to the front desk staff to discuss rates, available dates, and other fine points at a later time.

Deciding who should attend the meeting was not as easy as one might have supposed. Harry seemed like a given, but was he? What did Hermione want from this meeting? What did she want from her father?

Worry sent her to seek the counsel of her great-grandfather and her grand-mère. After a long afternoon of arguing back and forth, Hermione finally came to a decision. Marius would attend the meeting with her. He coached her on all of the pureblood nuances and what they would mean. To be honest, it was a lot like a formal luncheon with grand-mère—all stiff manners and cool politeness and careful, stilted speech. Hermione could do that easily. Lucius Malfoy didn't have anything on her grand-mère.

It was a conscious decision to dress Muggle, but she kept it formal, as a nod to the import of this meeting. Her mother had owned a couple of designer dresses that she wore to special occasions, and it was simple to perform a tailoring charm on one of them. Hermione left her hair down, loose and wild. Her great-grandfather wore a perfectly tailored bespoke suit. She crammed Harry into the navy suit that they had purchased for him at Selfridge's after the War. There had been a lot of funerals, and Harry had gone to most of them.

All of grand-mère's lessons came rushing back. Hermione's spine was ramrod straight, her ankles crossed neatly, her chin lifted imperiously when Lucius Malfoy walked into the conference room. Her great-grandfather rose to his feet and Harry copied him, just as they had reminded him to do.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with us," Hermione said and then hesitated for a long moment as she considered her options. "Father," she added.

"Of course," Lucius replied. He paused, waiting patiently.

"This is Marius Black, my great-grandfather. Great-grandfather, this is Lucius Malfoy, my… father," Hermione began introducing them. Calling Lucius her father did not get any easier. No matter how often she said it, it still felt awkward and strange on her tongue. "And you remember Harry, of course."

"Mr. Black," Lucius murmured and bowed politely toward Hermione's great-grandfather. His brows furrowed and his lips twitched into a not-quite frown. "Mr. Potter."

"Mr. Malfoy," Great-grandfather murmured and bowed back. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Mr. Malfoy," Harry parroted her great-grandfather. He made a sketchy bow, but chose not to lie through his teeth about how good it was to see Lucius again.

Hermione was willing to take what she could get. She smiled at everyone as they settled in their seats, and then focused on Lucius. On her father. No, it was still awkward and strange and unsettling.

"How may I help you, Hermione?" Lucius asked. His head was tilted, and he was watching her cautiously.

What do you want from me? Hermione read it in the line of his shoulders and in the hand clenched on the table. She let her shoulders relax. This was a meeting between two strangers. It wasn't a business meeting or a job interview or anything else. It was… well, it was like nothing else she'd ever done in her life.

"Draco wants you to forgive Narcissa," Hermione stated calmly. She was sure that he had to know that already. This wasn't a surprise. This wasn't news. She bit her lower lip for a moment before she continued. "He didn't ask me to do this. I rather think he's terrified of you and I being in the same room together."

Lucius' lips pressed into a thin line and he refused to look at her great-grandfather or Harry.

"Do you want me to forgive Narcissa?" Lucius asked with cold civility.

"Whether or not you are able to forgive your wife doesn't affect me," Hermione explained with her own cold civility. "I don't know either one of you. I have no feelings of safety or security tied up in your relationship. I'm merely stating that my brother has expressed his concerns."

"So, this is for Draco." Lucius seemed pleased with that possibility.

"It is merely one of the factors for this meeting," Hermione amended. She refused to let him think that this meeting represented some monumental breakthrough in her relationship with her brother.

"And the other factors?" Lucius probed.

"My parents." Hermione watched the hand that was on the table tighten into a fist and sighed inwardly. "My mum and dad are dealing with spell damage. The magical hospital in Australia could only do so much, and St. Joan's agreed with them after they did their own assessment. They… they don't remember me at all."

"I see." Lucius' hand had relaxed slightly.

"Draco suggested that you might be able to help. That your connections might help me find Healers that specialize in memory spells," Hermione prompted him.

"Most of my connections are social, political, or business, but I will see if anyone can suggest a Healer," Lucius said after a moment. His lips pressed together. "Perhaps a specialist."

"That would be much appreciated," Hermione admitted.

"And the other factors?" Lucius asked curiously, watching her with silver-grey eyes that reminded her of her brother.

"It would be good to know you a little better," Hermione replied. At least, everyone around her seemed to think that it would be a good idea. She glanced at her great-grandfather for a moment and then refocused on Lucius. "I've had limited interaction with you up to this point, and those interactions didn't paint you in the best light."

A small frown flitted over Lucius' lips and his brows furrowed.

"I suppose that might have been so, before," Lucius said slowly, his facial expressions and body language speaking to his confusion. "But of course, it's different now."

"Is it?" Hermione blinked at that.

The first time that she had ever seen Lucius Malfoy she had been almost thirteen—just weeks shy of her birthday. She hadn't met him, of course. Someone like him would never allow someone like her into their social circle. It had been an experience that left her shaking with a mix of rage, fear, and a burning sense of injustice. Mum and Dad had even talked about pulling her out of Hogwarts. It had taken a phone call from grand-mère to put that idea to rest.

At almost fifteen, Lucius Malfoy's arrogance and bigotry had been even more evident, and Hermione had vainly attempted to hide in a sea of Weasleys. It was the first time that she had ever seen her mother, not that she had known it at the time. The sleekly elegant witch had done her best to ignore their very existence while Lucius and Draco had taunted Harry and the Weasley family.

Perhaps she should have felt grateful, to be ignored while the Malfoy men were after blood, but instead, she had been left with the sick feeling that she wasn't worth their effort. She hadn't even registered as a person to someone like Lucius Malfoy. Draco certainly had never treated her as though she mattered.

No one needed to tell her that Lucius Malfoy was one of the wizards marching around in Death Eater garb as the attendees of the World Cup ran screaming. She had known exactly what sort of wizard would be drawn to the Dark Mark. She had despised him then, for his prejudice and his casual hatred of anyone like her.

At sixteen, she had been terrified of Lucius Malfoy. He represented a very real segment of wizarding society—a segment that saw her as filth, that preferred her death to her continued existence. She had seen the desperation in his speeches and fear had clutched at her chest. What sort of wizard was Voldemort, if he frightened monsters like Malfoy?

"Of course," Lucius said with a self-assurance that Hermione was unable to share.

"Do you… have you changed your outlook on Muggle-borns?" Hermione asked cautiously.

"What do Muggle-borns have to do with anything?" Lucius countered, the furrow between his brows deepening.

"I am a Muggle-born," Hermione said automatically. It had so long been a part of who she was—of how she identified herself in relation to the world around her—that the words fell off of her tongue without thought. Lucius scoffed and tossed his head.

"You are the only daughter of two of the most noble magical Houses in all of Europe," Lucius countered. "You are a pureblood among purebloods."

"A diamond of the first water?" Hermione asked drily, years of sneaking Mum's trashy romance novels still influencing her years later.

"Well… yes," Lucius agreed. "You're one of us, Hermione. Blood will tell, after all."

"No," Hermione countered with flashing eyes and a raised chin. "It really doesn't. If blood had anything to do with anything, then I would be as crazed as Bellatrix or Walburga or…" Hermione's jaw snapped shut and she refused to look at Harry.

"You're not wrong," Harry sighed quietly next to her. "Azkaban certainly didn't help, but… you're not wrong."

Hermione snorted and tossed her hair. "Walburga never went to Azkaban and she was just as awful as Bellatrix was."

"True," Harry huffed in agreement. Hermione wrinkled her nose at Harry in solidarity at Walburga's continued existence, even if it's only in portrait form.

"That isn't what I meant," Lucius snapped.

"What did you mean, then?" Hermione's voice grew sharp and she tensed. She hadn't meant to lose her temper with this man who was also her father. Not yet. Not while he might prove useful, at least.

"You can't help how you were raised," Lucius said stiffly. He waved a hand at her. "Now that you're among your own kind, you can learn the proper way of doing things."

"What way would that be, Father?" Hermione countered coldly. "Torturing school children because they weren't raised in a magical household?"

"No, of course not," Lucius sputtered, two spots of pink appearing high on his cheeks.

"Maybe you could show me the correct way to kick a House Elf," Hermione continued viciously.

"No!" Lucius' voice rose and his pale skin turned blotchy with rage. "I meant that we could help give a little polish. Help smooth away the rough edges. Help you to navigate society without embarrassing yourself."

"My rough edges don't need to be smoothed away," Hermione snarled, moving to stand. "Thanks to people like you, people like that bastard Dolohov, I've sharpened my rough edges, Father."

"Hermione." Great-grandfather carefully stood, leaning heavily on his cane. He patted her shoulder soothingly and spoke in French. "Do not let him upset you. He's only repeating what he was taught."

"So, he's just ignorant?" Hermione demanded in French.

"I am not ignorant," Lucius bit out between clenched teeth in English. Hermione snorted and her great-grandfather made a scoffing noise in his throat.

"Every time you open your mouth, you dig a deeper hole," Hermione raged helplessly. "I expected you to be… well, I knew what you were before I came here today. I knew and I came anyway. What does that really say about me?"

"That you're optimistic?" Harry offered from his seat. He glanced at Lucius and his upper lip curled.

"Being Muggle-born isn't anything to be embarrassed about," Hermione said to Lucius. She lifted her chin imperiously, sneering at Lucius. "I'm proud that I was raised Muggle. I'm grateful to grand-mère and great-grandfather for making sure that I had a solid foundation for my childhood."

"Your childhood put you at risk," Lucius protested. "You were tortured because people believed the lie your mother created."

"That's not her fault," Hermione hissed furiously. "It's not my Muggle parents' fault! It's not the fault of the people being oppressed for being oppressed, you lackwit! It's the people who torture schoolchildren who are responsible—not the gods-bedamned schoolchildren!"

Shaking with rage, Hermione jerked to her feet. Automatically, her hand snapped to her holster and she grabbed her wand.

"Hermione," Harry said slowly, cautiously. He rose to his feet and held out a hand to her. "Let go of your wand, love. We're in the middle of Claridge's."

"Just a tiny spell," Hermione countered. Her gaze narrowed on her father. "Maybe an avis oppugno?"

"Ron still has the scars, Hermione," Harry reminded her.

"That might be so, but he learned his lesson," Hermione snapped in a low voice.

"Granddaughter, this won't serve you," her great-grandfather warned her in French, his gaze flicking from Lucius to her. Reluctantly, Hermione turned to look at him.

"No, it probably won't," Hermione agreed, answering in the same language. She lifted her chin defiantly. "But I don't really care, Great-grandfather."

"You do," Great-grandfather continued in French. "You care about what happens to Elaine and Robert. You care about the Muggle-born children that will be entering this world. You even care about the wizarding world."

Hermione took a deep shuddering breath and then another. Emboldened, Harry moved closer and put his hand on Hermione's shoulder, gently pressing down, grounding her. She turned to him completely and buried her face in his chest.

"You will help your daughter, will you not, Mr Malfoy?" Great-grandfather asked in a cool voice. Lucius Malfoy had already proven that he understood French perfectly well.

"Of course," Lucius snapped in English. "I will do whatever I—," He paused and turned to frown at Hermione. "I will do my best to assist your foster parents," he told her.

"I am grateful for your offer of assistance," Hermione replied and gave him a stiff nod.

"Hermione," Lucius sighed. "I wanted this meeting to go differently," he whispered.

"What on earth did you expect?" Hermione demanded incredulously. She pulled away from Harry and her great-grandfather and put her hands on the conference table, leaning forward. "Did you suppose that I would be so fucking thrilled to find out that I was a perfect little pureblood princess that I would run into your arms? Did you think that I would be fucking grateful to know that I was a member of the illustrious House of Malfoy? Did you expect me to bow down and kiss your robes in happiness?"

"No, of course not. I—" Lucius began only to stop when Hermione stabbed a finger in his direction.

"I've spent the last decade in this world," Hermione snarled at him. "I know exactly what you, what your ilk think of me—I heard it enough at Hogwarts. Mudblood," she spat the word at him. Lucius twitched at her vitriol.

"Hermione," Harry protested.

"I'm as Muggle as they come, and I'm proud to be the daughter of Elaine and Robert Granger," Hermione declared. Her gaze raked over Lucius Malfoy scathingly. "Far better to be the daughter of Muggles than the daughter of a bigoted prick."

"Hermione." Great-grandfather's voice was heavy with disappointment.

"I'm done," Hermione snapped. She spun on her heel and tossed her hair before she marched out of the conference room, slamming the door behind her.