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).
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Draco watches from the terrace as his mother and Neville Longbottom walk toward the formal gardens. His mother has her wand out, in a precautionary way, and Longbottom has a collecting box at the ready. Hermione's parents follow a few paces behind.
He stayed behind because there is the very good chance that the Horror in the formal gardens would find his baby sister a tasty morsel, given that she's about the size of a Kneazel but doesn't move nearly as fast. He tightens his hold on her, just thinking about that. No, he's not a coward, but there are some chances he is not willing to take…
… except that he is a coward, he has to admit, because there is Granger, no, Hermione, picking up each of his toys in turn and looking at them in wonderment, and then stealing little sidelong glances at him, as if to size up the little boy who had owned those toys, and he's avoiding her eyes.
She stayed behind, and there was no reason. She could have accompanied her perfectly mad fiance, or boyfriend, or whatever Longbottom is to her—it's close, certainly, because Longbottom's eyes follow her everywhere, with a kind of tender attention. They touched—accidentally, but rather a lot—as they walked through the rose garden; Draco finds himself wondering what they do behind closed doors. Have they…?
No, he's not going to ask himself that question, not with Hermione not ten paces away, smiling appreciatively at the glittering likeness of a Norwegian Ridgeback.
Hypatia wriggles against him, impatient to see what's happening; he settles her on his lap so that she's looking out at the world from the safe circle of his arms. He leans forward and lets her feather-fine blond hair tickle his face; there's the wonderful smell of baby, that he'd never noticed before, likely because other people's babies do not smell as nice as his baby sister. When he touches a fingertip to her silky cheek, when she smiles and reaches for him, when he feels her breathing in his arms, there are things he understands that he never did before. He realizes that he loves Hypatia as his mother loved him. Though he hopes he loves her wisely, he recognizes that he's as besotted as any doting mother.
And if there were a question of lying to Dark Lords on his little sister's behalf, he'd do it in a heartbeat…
… and (with a shiver) he thinks that if someone meant her harm, he would put himself in the way without thinking about it, and he realizes just how childishly blasphemous he had been in making fun of the death of Potter's mother. He still has no idea—he suspects that no one does—what sort of person she was, buried as she is under labels laudatory or defamatory, but in that last moment…
Hermione is looking at his Quidditch players, who are wandering across the tabletop that served as their pitch. She has an unreadable expression, and disconcertingly, she keeps looking at him, as if he were a book she wanted to read… except perhaps in a language she doesn't understand, or in a ferocious enchanted binding, like some of the grimoires in his father's library…
Finally, she puts down the toy dragon, well away from the Quidditch players, and looks at him. "Malfoy," she says.
"Granger."
The silence is thick and awkward and he isn't sure what's hiding in it. There's something that wants to be said.
She walks over and sits down in the chair next to his. She's looking at him and biting her lip.
Finally she looks at Hypatia and says, "She's really quite sweet." Draco smiles before he realizes that his face is doing that, and then feels awkward. You mean, not like me, he thinks, but doesn't say.
Her eyes are like her mother's, sharp and observant, and she has some of the mildness of her father… yes, her father is a Presence too, just like Dr. Burgess. And like that other Muggle Healer, both of the Granger parents seem to put one at ease almost as a matter of course.
He watches his mother, a distant figure in pale broad-brimmed hat. She's at ease talking to the Granger parents, so she must feel it as well, that calm restfulness and reassurance.
The daughter is not so restful. She's always been like that, he realizes, a bristling vortex of restless energy: bossing, organizing, announcing the answers she's ferreted out of books… and now, she's sitting demurely with ankles crossed, but her foot is jiggling, and she's still biting her lower lip. He wonders if that hurts, and then thinks again about her and Longbottom kissing (what he glimpsed once in the hallway at the clinic), and wishes he hadn't…
He glances aside and catches a glimpse in one of the dim mirrors on the back wall: a boy in traditional robes, with a baby on his lap, and a girl sitting close, their features lost against the brilliant light from the gardens. … if he didn't know who they were, he'd think they were a happy couple with their baby.
That's not a picture that will come to pass in his lifetime, of course—certainly not in the expected circles. There was a time… he remembers the time, when he was fourteen, and his mother and father took him aside for the Talk, asked him who he might fancy from the acceptable families… all of whom are dead now, or far from inclined to consider him as a reasonable match.
Pansy, whom he once thought he might marry, lives in seclusion, and the word is that she's taken to drink. He passed Millicent Bulstrode in the street the last time he was in Diagon Alley, and she pretended not to recognize him. Cut him dead, right in front of his Aunt Andromeda's book shop: Millie the half-blood doesn't want to be contaminated by association with a Pureblood Heir…
Hermione looks at him, this time directly in the eyes. It's disconcerting. There's her impossible hair, that he once thought of as some wild emanation of her primitive Mugglish self: jungle-thick, flourishing kinks and curls, struck into blazing bronze where the sun catches in it. Under its wild fringe, her eyes are dark, and her nose and cheekbones and chin are all quite undistinguished… well, somewhere back there are tillers of the soil, or canny traders: something plebeian and striving and clever…
She says, "Everything's rather different now, isn't it?" He nods; that's an understatement. She adds, "It's rather pretty here."
He nods, all the requisite small talk having taken flight. He can feel her groping her way toward something important, that she isn't quite sure how to say.
She looks away to the formal gardens, where the four figures are now lost in the maze of hedges; only from time to time does he catch a glimpse of his mother's hat against the sharp green light and deep shadows of the manicured labyrinth. Her face is set in stubborn lines; whatever it is she means to say will get said, as soon as she manages to lay hands on it properly.
Hypatia wriggles and stretches toward Hermione, who smiles at her, and says, "I think she's curious about me. May I…?"
Only it's clear she has no idea how to hold babies; had she never read those books? He demonstrates and then carefully places his little sister in her arms… which brings them disconcertingly close, so that wild hair brushes his forehead.
She settles back in her chair, letting its back support her shoulders and spine, and says, "My mother asked why we were still on surnames. I said it was how it always had been." She adds, "We're not enemies, exactly."
"I should have thanked you," he says. "For what you did in the waiting room, with the Auror."
She says sharply, "She was misusing her authority. You've already had a trial and that was nasty enough in itself." She adds, "We all could live rather a long time, and I don't want to be re-fighting that war through the next century."
"Is it only a point of principle?" he asks, before he can stop himself. "Like the house elves…"
She looks at him, while keeping Hypatia's chubby little fingers out of her hair. There are two of her: the one who's thinking, and the one who's minding the baby's roving curiosity. "It's personal, I suppose. Doing the right thing is personal." She smiles, but it's all awkwardness. "I never knew you well enough to dislike you."
For some reason, he suddenly wants to cry, which of course is childishness. She continues, "You were never speaking as yourself when you said all those things to us. You were just looking for the thing that would get a reaction. It wasn't personal. I only hit you that one time because I was exhausted and you would try to provoke me."
He says, "I'm sorry." Anything he could add to that would be little to his credit: he was a child, he was jealous, he was writhing under his father's reproaches about not being able to best a mere Muggle-born, he truly didn't understand life and death, he was carelessly cruel…
She takes a firm grip around Hypatia's waist with one arm, to free the other so that she can reach across to pat his hand. "You already apologized, and I accepted. You don't have to do it over and over again, you know. It's just going to be awkward." She pauses. "It is awkward. You're rather different than you were. So are we all." She smiles, a little tentatively. "They say that coming through a war makes one an adult. I'm not convinced. But if all goes well, we'll have a good hundred years to make up any difference."
He realizes that he's clasping her hand, and nodding, and compressing his mouth to keep back any stupid words, because words would be stupid at this juncture; it's only deeds that are going to make up the difference, and he's already so far in arrears. She smiles at him, and then at Hypatia, who's waving her arms and wriggling, starfish-fashion. "She's restless, like you. I'm quite curious how she'll turn out." She laughs, and squeezes his hand, and says, "For that matter, I'm curious how we'll turn out. None of us are grownups yet, for all we've been pretending."
He nods, feeling his face grow hot for no reason at all, the same lack of reason for which tears are prickling his nose, and releases her hand.
She looks out toward the gardens, and adds, "It does appear they've found it." He can see his mother's hat, and the wind-ruffled top of Neville's head, and there's no mistaking that there's a bounce in his step, even at this distance. "Neville will be ever so pleased, and I'm sure your mother will have a citation in his report." She frowns. "Did your mother ever consider becoming a Herbologist?"
Draco realizes that he'd never thought to ask that; he knows almost nothing of his mother's life before she was his mother. It's a thought, though, for the garden seems to be the only occupation that cheers her, just as caring for Hypatia cheers him. He might bring up the subject; even though she's right and they aren't grownups quite yet, his mother has taken to conversing with him as if he were an adult. They've discussed Hypatia's future; now they might talk about her mother's.
He doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until he exhales, and it sounds disconcertingly like a sigh. She nods, as if something has been settled, and says, "I did rather enjoy your toys. They're quite marvelous."
He says, "Thank you." He'd like to invite her to come and play with them again if she'd like, but of course they're no longer children.
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