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).
***
It's Sunday afternoon, and the weather is perfect, with a smiling blue sky and green-gold light flickering in the foliage of the Grangers' back garden. The kitchen is full of the lovely smells of olive oil, rosemary and garlic. Hermione's parents are both at work on the meal, and life seems to have returned to the idyllic days before the war.
Except now she's an adult, and permitted to do magic, and so …
"That's the fourth time you've Transfigured the china," Hermione's mother says, shooing her daughter out of the kitchen. "Neville, will you distract her, please?"
Hermione knows that her mother is right (she's only underfoot) but this doesn't allay the up-rush of anxiety at the thought that in less than half an hour, Narcissa Malfoy will be seated in her parents' back garden, as if she were an ordinary guest.
Luckily, Neville is actually quite good at distracting her. He puts an arm around her and they go to sit in the back garden. Earlier in the morning, he and Hermione had put up the marquee, a miniature version of the sort that Bill and Fleur had at their wedding. Narcissa and Draco are both quite fair-skinned, and while high noon in the London suburbs doesn't have the intensity of the sunlight in her parents' other home on the Australian coast, she's not sure that she's ever seen either of them abroad in full daylight.
For someone once renowned for the faultiness of his memory, Neville has a remarkable collection of stories, which balance on the cusp between history, genealogy and gossip, and he knows that Hermione loves nothing so much as to learn something new. At the moment, he's telling her about his friend Andrew's fiancée Miranda, whom he knew before they were introduced.
The pretense was necessary, of course, not so much because Andrew is a Muggle, as because of the nature of the connection. Miranda is actually his cousin.
Hermione is more than successfully distracted from her worry about Narcissa's imminent arrival (which she recognizes as an odd amalgam of post-traumatic stress and class anxiety). "I thought Miranda was a Muggle."
"Well, by some lights she is; I mean she's mostly Muggle." He frowns. "Except her grandmother was no witch, so Eugene must have been a Squib rather than a plain Muggle." He frowns. "Or maybe he was a wizard. Gran thinks he may have been kin to Anthony Goldstein; she says Anthony is the dead spit of him."
"I thought that Anthony was Muggle-born."
Neville smiles. "So did he." It's all more complicated than that, of course; everything in the wizarding world turns out that way. He doesn't know all that much about Eugene, of course, because he died in 1919 and never even knew that he was the father of Miranda's grandmother; it definitely wasn't a marriage but an episode. Nonetheless the ancient keepsake photo of Eugene has pride of place on Augusta Longbottom's mantelpiece, right next to the wizarding photograph of Frank Longbottom Sr., and the family picture of the other Frank, her first husband, and the child they lost to the Spanish flu.
The breeze is sweet and the sunlight flickers on her closed eyelids; it doesn't hurt that Neville is stroking her hair, and then (unfairly but oh so pleasantly) closing his warm hand on the back of her neck. "You know I can't resist your family sagas," she says.
He kisses the top of her head. "Gran wouldn't approve of me telling," he says, "except you're family already, or near enough…"
Actually, it would be disturbing if she didn't trust him, how well he distracts her. "Neville," she says.
He grazes her cheek with his, very like Crookshanks.
"You're actually doing quite a good job of distracting me."
"But you're worrying again," he says, kissing her. "They'll be here shortly, and then it will be just a garden party." She leans into his warmth, and he adds, "Though I never thought it would be your parents having the Malfoys to dinner."
"And your Gran," she says.
"That's another matter," he says. "I didn't think I would be that lucky."
***
Neville is right; the time passes without notice, as they talk about the people they know from Hogwarts, about Ginny Weasley's successful tryout with the Holyhead Harpies—the scandal of the year, since her parents (which is to say her mother) were expecting her to finish Hogwarts in due course--well, things are in disorder of late, which is what Ginny had said to them by way of explanation.
Hermione would have been scandalized by that, once upon a time—imagine, Ginny leaving her NEWTs in doubt!—but now that things are in disorder generally, and the NEWTs are in doubt for everyone in her year and earlier… She startles at the crack of Apparition and a surprised half-cry of surprise from inside the house. Her father emerges to say, "They're here."
Indeed they are: Narcissa Malfoy is standing in the kitchen, just relinquishing her son's arm; he's brought her directly to the Grangers' kitchen by side-along Apparition, discourteous though that is, because it's broad daylight and there's the Statute of Secrecy to consider. And, Hermione realizes, he knows the kitchen well enough to manage direct Apparition there.
Her father is already taking Narcissa's cloak and asking if her trip was pleasant—a silly question, of course, because Apparition is never pleasant, but Narcissa is smiling her regal social smile and replying that it went as well as can be expected.
Hypatia is fussing; Draco explains that she's just wakened from her afternoon nap, and Apparition doesn't agree with her. She confirms that by spitting up all over his dress robes and the satchel of baby things. He flicks his wand, discreetly Vanishing the mess, and Hermione takes care of the bit that landed on the floor.
The doorbell rings, and Hermione's mother goes to answer it, and comes back accompanied by Augusta Longbottom, arrayed in her green dress, vulture hat, and carrying her red handbag. She came out on the commuter train like a proper visitor to the London suburbs.
Now the kitchen is far too full of people; Hermione's mother shoos them out to the garden, to sit under the marquee and admire the garden while she finishes the last of the preparations on dinner.
Narcissa remarks on the beauty and vigor of the rose bushes, which immediately engages Hermione's father, as those are his particular enthusiasm.
Behind her back, Draco mouths, "And no peacocks," which makes Hermione stifle a giggle. He's holding Hypatia in his lap, somewhat awkwardly, as he fishes with one hand in the satchel for a toy… Accio being quite out of the question in full view of the neighbors.
Of course, the toy in question is scarcely more discreet: a wonderful fluttering iridescent thing, at the sight of which Hypatia squeals in delight. It's a fantastical iridescent sort of rippling sheet, that floats through the air like a ray through tropical seas; it turns in on itself and folds, until the shape of a phoenix coalesces out of the glittering elaboration of surfaces.
Hypatia looks at it with a shiny fascinated gaze and waves her hands in delight.
Hermione doesn't remember her own baby toys, long since passed on to cousins or to children of her parents' friends, but they must have been a great deal duller than this, no doubt scientific and educational… well, in the wizarding world, this toy is the correspondent, as it shows creatures known to exist. Now the phoenix dissolves into a tangle of abstract folds and a dragon takes shape ….
Draco says that this is one of his own baby toys.
Narcissa looks over her shoulder at them, from her tour of the rose garden, and smiles indulgently.
Hermione wonders if it's Narcissa or Draco who takes the most care of the baby, who is currently nestled in her brother's arms as he guides the iridescent soap-bubble toy just out of range of her chubby little fingers.
Unbidden, she remembers that this doting brother, taking such tender attention of his baby sister, is the son for whom Narcissa was willing to betray their Dark Lord… and for whom she was willing to sell out his schoolmates—herself, Harry, Ron…
But she won't think about that, because it's the post-war. She won't think about that, because Neville's warmth next to her reminds her that she's safe. She won't think about that, because her father is telling Narcissa about the Australian flora in the garden of their other home, and Narcissa is responding with questions that show a true gardener's delight in the exotica of the Antipodes.
Augusta Longbottom is telling Elizabeth Granger how very much she's admired Hermione's character, ever since she was a wee slip of a thing and helping Neville to find his lost toad on the Hogwarts Express. She's no less proud of her grandson for ignoring all the fuss about his war-hero status. They've both been a great help in the post-war, and (she lowers her voice here) quite generous to those on both sides.
Neville's attention is suddenly absorbed by something in the grass; Draco turns pink and waves his wand to make the iridescent dragon fly in loops around baby Hypatia, who shrieks in delight. Hermione pretends that she didn't notice anything.
Narcissa is saying that she has quite a challenge with her roses, because of the peacocks that have the run of the estate and can't be interfered with because they're traditional. Her husband's family keeps them, she says.
Hermione's father nods sagely, with a humorous expression about his mouth; it's plain he's thinking of the judicious silences that contribute to a successful marriage.
And then it's time to eat, which comes as a great relief to all concerned.
***
Author's notes: As in the Amends universe, my back-story for Neville's Gran is borrowed from the fan-fiction writer A. J. Hall (Lust over Pendle, Dissipation and Despair). Gran's 'episode' with Eugene is her invention; Miranda is also the name of Eugene's daughter (the grandmother of Andrew's fiancée). Andrew belongs to Silver Sailor Ganymede, from her fic Explanations (ch 6, Neville Longbottom).