Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling; I'm only visiting her universe for nonprofit fun and edification. (No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended).
***
Draco had seen the lights on, and rather fewer layers of Muggle-repelling charms, and of course he should have known that meant something. Now he's standing on the front steps of the Granger house, picked out in the light over the front door, and feeling singularly exposed. His baby sister slumbers against his chest, a warm breathing weight. It took forever for her to settle this time; he'd paced the Manor, which she doesn't like for some reason; there's something in the air that she picks up, perhaps her mother's unhappiness and perhaps some uneasy presence from all that's happened there. Babies are notoriously sensitive to ghosts that no one else sees.
Since the coming of spring, he's been taking her outside, Apparating to the Leaky Cauldron, and walking thence to King's Cross. For some reason, she loves Muggle trains; as soon as the train is in motion, she snuggles against his chest and falls asleep. A discreet Glamour takes care of any potential Muggle annoyances, and he never goes out without his wand, in any case.
Tonight, halfway to the commuter suburbs, he remembered … Granger. He was curious as to the use she'd made of the elf-made wine, which she'd mentioned in passing to him had checked out clean with Slughorn.
He knows that meant the most comprehensive assay known to wizardkind, because Slughorn dislikes him with a cold and immovable passion, dating not only from sixth year but from three generations of Malfoys before him: his father Lucius and grandfather Abraxas, whom Slughorn taught at Hogwarts, and his great-grandfather Apollonius Paracelsus, who was his schoolmate.
For his own part, he can't look at Slughorn without remembering the agony of sixth-year Potions, constantly worrying about being caught at his thefts of Polyjuice and the desperate business in the Room of Requirement, and half-hoping that he would be, if Dumbledore and his forces were in fact as all-powerful as they cracked on… well, that hadn't worked out so well, had it?
In any case, he prefers not to think about Horace Slughorn if he can help it.
He's standing there, caught in the full glare of electric light, and who's staring at him is the Granger parents. The Muggle parents of the Muggle-born… her mother, whose sharp dark eyes would suggest a Legilimens of no small attainment, if she were a witch; and her father, whose unruly mane of curly hair and steel-rimmed spectacles make him look like a lion—a swotty sort of lion, the Gryffindor coat of arms come to rumpled, Mugglish life.
Her mother gives him a long, considering glance that solves for him in a split-second the puzzle of Granger's compulsively law-abiding ways. "I believe we've met," she says. "I'm Elizabeth Granger, and you are Draco Malfoy. We met you… some years ago. Diagon Alley. With your father." This last in a tone that makes it quite clear that she knows exactly who, and what, Lucius Malfoy is.
He nods, shifting baby Hypatia in his arms so that his wand hand is free to make a reach if he needs to defend her.
To his surprise, Elizabeth Granger extends her hand. He stares at it for long moment, until he realizes that he's looking at a proffered handshake.
Gingerly, he takes the hand, and shakes it. The grip is firm but not crushing, a Healer's handshake, that reassures you that you will be looked after capably.
Some sort of Muggle Healers, they are, he recalls…
"I believe your efforts gave Hermione opportunity for some magical orthodontia," Elizabeth Granger says dryly. It's an even longer pause before he realizes that she's referring to his hex that grew Granger's teeth to grotesque length. He's seriously discomfited by this, and tries to settle his face into a neutral expression.
Granger's father turns to his daughter and says, "Well, are you going to invite him in?"
Granger looks annoyed, and then says, "Come on in, Malfoy. We were just getting ready to have breakfast."
***
It's singularly awkward, not least because it's the first time he's ever broken bread with Muggles, and they're making polite small talk, and asking after his baby sister: her name, her age, what sort of difficulty he has in settling her to sleep, her mother's health.
Halfway through the meal, she shifts on his shoulder, yawns, and looks at him with a momentary expression of solemn cogitation, which tells him that shortly he'll have an unpleasant task to attend to….
… which he can't, of course, since she's forbidden wand-work. So he'll have to withdraw to the garden, or some other location, to change the baby's nappies…
Granger's mother smiles at him knowingly, and offers the use of the table in the other room. He frowns and shifts uncomfortably, not sure…
"Oh it's perfectly all right, Malfoy," Granger says. "Neville's Gran showed me how to see to that awkwardness with the electronics."
Much to his discomfort, they insist on following him to the table, where he lays the baby out on her blanket, and undoes the nappies so he can Vanish the mess…
"Well, that's convenient," Elizabeth Granger says, with mild interest. "So, where does it go?"
He frowns and shrugs. "Wherever Vanished objects go, I suppose."
Her husband says, "I wish we'd had a baby-minder from your side of the border," and then Draco senses, from the quelling expression on Granger's face, that her father is about to tell some embarrassing anecdote of her babyhood.
Which he doesn't. Instead he says, "We've been contemplating how to partake of your mother's housewarming gift." He looks to see the bottle standing on the sideboard, darkly gleaming.
"Granger, you cleaned it," he says with some pique.
Elizabeth Granger cuts in. "No, young man, I did. It was simply filthy."
"The cobwebs are honorific," he says, irritated (irrationally he knows) that she doesn't understand the nuances. "Otherwise it could be some third-rate vintage bottled forty years ago."
"Harvest of 1789," Granger says, "and we know it, so I don't understand why we have to prove it."
Her mother says, "And I don't fancy spiders creeping about while I'm having a sip of wine. So would your mother be partial to a nice little dinner with us? We're inviting Hermione's young man and his grandmother, as well. We couldn't possibly drink that all by ourselves."
He has to allow that the bottle is imposingly large, but no doubt Mother was thinking of her own entertaining at the Manor. He's not sure if he should accept the invitation on her behalf, lest the tricky subject arise of return hospitality. From the look on Granger's face, she's contemplating the same prospect.
"We could dine alfresco, in the back garden," her father says. "Hermione tells me that your family has a stately home in Wiltshire, and your mother is quite a gardener."
"Though I wouldn't fancy trying to keep a flower garden with peacocks strutting about," her mother says. "They'll eat all sorts of things."
It had been a running argument between his mother and father, the only one he remembers in his earshot. No doubt it stood in for other things, but unexpectedly it brings tears to his eyes, for he hears his father's voice saying, "Narcissa, the peacocks are traditional, and I won't have you hexing them just because they eat your roses."
He does up the baby's clothes and wraps her once more in her light blanket, which distracts, he hopes, as he discreetly wipes his eyes on his sleeve.
So, unexpectedly, he meets the dawn sitting at breakfast with the Drs. Granger and their daughter, as they pass the baby around and fuss over her, and say how much she looks like her brother. Unspoken is their approbation of him as an affectionate brother and foster-father, for he's quite sure that they know his whole story.
It's unclear, though, how he's going to extend the invitation to his mother—who would be at once pleased at the belated acceptance of her gift, and perhaps discomfited at the notion of dining with Muggles.
***