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).
The summer air, under the shade of the marquee, caresses his face like silk, and his little sister rests in the crook of his left arm, curled against his heart, her tiny ribcage rising and falling against his, her sweet warm weight supported by the forearm that bears a not-quite-faded Mark of ill omen.
Draco has always been a bit of a sensualist, without quite admitting it, and the lessons of the good Dr. Burgess—to stay in the present, to root himself in the specificity of what is happening right now—have rather extended his list of pleasures. Funny, that in the austere post-war, he should have had so much more enjoyment than in the days of glory of the House of Malfoy.
He's aware of the texture of his clothes, the silk tunic and under-robe and the cotton outer layer, in a deep green like the shifting light deep in a summer forest. In his right hand, there's the cool weight of a crystal wine glass—for the Grangers have taken out their best stemware, as befits a two-hundred-year-old vintage of elf-made wine.
Under cover of the tablecloth and the folds of his formal robes, he slowly slides his feet in and out of his shoes—his favorite green Turkish slippers, stitched with silver—letting the silk lining caress them.
His mother, who is the most beautiful woman in the world, sits across from him, sipping her wine and conversing with Granger's father. Unexpectedly, quite unexpectedly, they have continued their passionate conversation about rose gardening, and Mr. Granger has already promised her some cuttings as well as copies of some articles that might interest her, and she has reciprocated with an invitation to tour the Manor grounds.
If Mr. Granger accepts that invitation, he'll be the first Muggle in five hundred years to make such a visit and walk out alive.
Hermione Granger, who is decidedly not the most beautiful woman in the world, sits next to the round-faced boy, no, the young man, who is almost certainly her fiancé, even if it's not official yet, and holds his hand under the table. Draco is amused at this; the folds of the tablecloth would hide their joined hands if Longbottom weren't so clumsily beaming at her, but Granger and Longbottom don't really care about hiding it. The expressions on the faces of Granger's mother and Longbottom's grandmother are covertly amused.
He remembers, as if it were in another life, that he once said unforgivable things to Neville Longbottom, taunting him about his insane parents. He remembers, as if it were last week (which it was) that he apologized for it, feeling quite raw because after all, Longbottom could have paid him out—Draco's father is in Azkaban—but never has spoken a word about it. Quite the contrary: on their first visit to the offices of Drs. Rosencrantz and Burgess, Neville greeted Draco's mother with the ancient courtesies befitting a witch of her rank, and the solemnity befitting her deep losses.
Longbottom had accepted the apology gravely, and had been the first to extend a handshake.
Then he had said what should have insulted Draco but oddly did not, because of the utter calm with which he said it: "You were a child."
What he didn't add, for it didn't need saying: and I know that you are rather different, now that you have a child of your own.
When Hypatia begins to talk, there's no doubt that she'll mistake her brother for her father. He doesn't know if it would be the better part to leave that mistake uncorrected until she's rather older, at least so she won't feel the loss too early. And given his family's disgrace, it's likely the only way he will be anyone's father.
He has to admit, after all these years, that Potter was right: Neville Longbottom is worth twelve of him. He's been working on making up the debt; perhaps the exchange rate might drop to eight?
The bouquet of the wine—shifting and changeable, almond and frankincense, citrus and rose, an unnameable freshness like dawn on the moors—reminds him that he's alive, and in company. Mrs. Granger looks at him from across the table; she does have witch's eyes. It's hard to believe that she's not a witch, that Hermione Granger sprang full-blown from a long line of thorough Muggles. Pureblood Muggles, as it were … what a funny thought.
Mrs. Granger smiles at him, and at least half of the smile is in her eyes, as if she really could see his thought, and agreed that it was amusing.
He smiles back, and raises his glass slightly before taking another sip. "To your delightful hospitality, Madam Granger," he says.
She acknowledges the compliment and asks him if he would like more of the bouillabaisse.
He accepts another serving, with a compliment to the perfection with which it has been prepared. She says that it is the freshness of the ingredients, and of course attention.
When he was a child, he scorned this sort of small talk, and now he realizes that it can be completely sincere, this ritual accord on the beautiful and the true: scallops in olive oil and rosemary, roses bred for burgeoning glory, a small and well-loved baby girl.
With her witch's eyes and her intelligent smile, Mrs. Granger is actually a very attractive woman, much in the style of her daughter… In that smile is a flashing glimpse of a possible world he never had considered, in which he might have recognized the peculiar attractiveness of Hermione Granger. In another world, had he not been so keen on being Lucius Malfoy's son, had he not been born into an unfinished war, had that war and its instigator not risen from the dead to haunt another generation. That possible world lies completely out of his reach, because he can imagine no sequence of events in his world that would have ended with him sitting in Longbottom's place next to her.
And if Neville Longbottom is worth twelve of him, he doesn't want to think about what his fiancée weighs in that measure. After all, their current association had begun with him reproaching her—with a drawn wand—for his sleepless nights, and she had put her mind to solving that problem as if he were the same as the people on her own side, as if his people hadn't tried to kill her.
And thanks to the Muggle doctor's sensible ministrations, he sleeps very well these days—as well as the foster-father of a baby girl can sleep—with midsummer approaching and a sweet breeze stirring the curtains of his childhood room. It occurs to him that when he's in the room with Dr. Burgess, he doesn't think of him as a Muggle, but a Presence.
Something warm and silky slides past his shins; he looks down to see Granger's great beast of a cat rubbing back and forth along his green robes, before looking up at him with its lantern eyes, and moving on to mark the next guest.