June.

June came and went almost uneventfully, save for the party that the Weasleys hosted for Draco. He had arrived at their house, punctual as always, if not slightly perturbed by what he was about to do. The door had opened before he'd had a chance to knock and there was a sudden silence as the people inside registered who it was. He made out Ron's figure, as well as Ginny, George and some children. He felt exposed all of a sudden, and wondered what it was that possessed him to go and spend his birthday with the Weasleys, of all people. He opened his mouth, about to make some excuse to leave, but Hermione beat him to it.

"Malfoy! We thought…well we thought it was Bill, because, oh there you are Bill, do come in. Hello Fleur, " Hermione waved Bill and his wife inside in a flustered manner. "We didn't…"

Know if you were coming, Draco finished in his head as he held up a hand to stop her mid-sentence. "Don't trouble yourself over it. Let's…just get this over with quickly, shall we? Doubtless the extending of your olive branch does not require me to be here longer than necessary."

Hermione knew better than to reply, and merely nodded.

With that, the conversation inside resumed and he stepped through their threshold. What he saw next was oddly pleasing, although he would never admit it. The house had been decorated in silver and blue – colours that he was normally dressed in when he was in public. He supposed they had assumed they were his favourites, and he had to admit they were correct. For a change, he added mentally. He sat down at the table awkwardly, but was surprised when Bill struck up a conversation about Quidditch that he actually found interesting.

The food was lovely, and he said simply so, which earned a snigger from Ron. Hermione elbowed him in the ribcage, but Draco, ever the crowd-pleaser, asked him to elaborate.

"She used to be absolute pants at cooking! Rubbish, really," he laughed. He gulped when Hermione's lips pursed and she glared at him. "Uh…I…that is to say…as you said…it's really wonderful…now?"

Without another word, Hermione picked up his plate, took it into the kitchen and sat back down.

"…My food?" Ron said. He had the uncanny ability to make everything sound uncertain.

"You're not getting another bite, Ronald." Hermione said testily.

Everyone at the table laughed, even the children, and Ron was reduced to spluttered apologies.

"Could you simply not get up and fetch it yourself?" Draco suggested with a smirk that implied he knew exactly why this was not an option.

"Speak for yourself," muttered Ron, "Just wait until you get married."

"No dessert, either, Ronald," Hermione said cheerfully. Fleur whispered something conspiratorially into Bill's ear that made him choke on his drink and laugh heartily.

Ron's mouth dropped open and he flailed helplessly in the direction of Draco. "See, that was your fault!"

"My fault?" Draco put on his more sincere face. Despite his apprehension at being inside a Weasley's home, eating a Weasley's cooking, he had to admit that egging Ron on in the entirely wrong direction was better than sitting home alone drinking Firewhisky and staring at the fireplace. "Why, Weasley, I would never provoke such a wonderful hostess."

More laughter met this remark, and Ron, defeated, slumped forwards onto the table.

Once everyone had finished dinner, Hermione went into the kitchen to fetch dessert. As Draco had suspected, she gave some to Ron anyway, and shook his head at her with what he hoped was a derisive smirk rather than an amused smile. Ron made a big show of tasting it and being impressed by its flavour, and in return, Hermione smacked him in the head playfully.

He felt something tug at his robe as dessert was being cleared away, and looked down to find a young girl – not Rose – pulling at his sleeve. What was George's child's name again? It was something similar. Rosy? Rosemary? His eyes slid over to Hermione and she mouthed 'Roxanne'.

"…yes…Roxanne…?"

"Mister Malfoy, Aunty Hermione said we could open your presents after dinner."

Draco looked back up at the others. "Presents," he repeated flatly. In response, everyone except Fleur shrugged as one. He fought back the desire to shudder, or worse, say something in retaliation that implied that their offspring were offensive in some way.

Hermione took him aside as they all filed into the living room. "Look, Malfoy," she began uncertainly. Draco wondered if he had ever heard her sound confused.

"Pansy and Blaise are in France. My mother is in Sweden. Theo is a good friend, but frankly, shit at partying. I have nowhere better to be, and admitting that to you is making me feel extremely nauseated. Weasel-lover," he added, although it didn't sound nearly as cruel as it used to and she didn't even blink at the attempted insult.

"Just open them and go. I'm sure you're quite uncomfortable here. We just…well we know you've never been friends with Harry, but we appreciate you trying to help just the same. It's…you've done more than anyone else has, so we're trying our best to…be civil with you."

He raised an eyebrow at that and brushed past her into the living room.

"Mister Malfoy, sit here, sit here!"

Draco exhaled exasperatedly, softly enough that the children, distracted as they were, did not hear him. He did it pointedly in Ron and George's direction, and without saying a word both fathers picked up their hyperactive daughters.

"This is from us." Ron said, handing Draco a small parcel. Inside was a large notebook, bound in dragonskin leather, with pages made from a material very similar to silk. "Hermione was asking your workmates for gift ideas and…well almost no one had any bloody good ones but then Stratton mentioned you seemed to like writing. The pages are waterproof."

"I…thank you," Draco said simply, stunned. Hermione had asked his boss for gift ideas? He looked over at her, and she ducked her head.

Bill and Fleur gave him a nice new set of quills to go with the notebook, and Ginny had bought him a book on potions ingredients. It was odd, sitting amongst people he had hated. He had harmed them. They had harmed him. And now…

Draco had gathered up his presents, said a quiet but polite goodbye, and had returned home. He set his presents from the Weasleys on his desk next to the book Blaise and Pansy had sent over. Theo fire-called, and moments later an owl had arrived from him with a few pieces of potion-making equipment. He marvelled at this. At this rate he wouldn't ever have to buy anything for himself. If someone had told him that the bloody Weasley family would have cajoled him into babysitting for Harry bloody Potter and then given him bloody presents for his bloody birthday at their house…

Draco pinched the bridge of his noise, suddenly needing a drink. Walking downstairs to his kitchen, he briefly wondered who had been watching over the useless husk of Potter. Worry stabbed at him, but he brushed it aside. No doubt the Weasleys had thought of that. Though Draco found Hermione ridiculously irritating, he knew she was intelligent, loathe as he was to admit it.

He selected a bottle, tipped some of the liquid into a glass, and downed it, shaking his head vigorously as it burned his throat. He poured some more, swirled the glass, and returned the bottle to its shelf before padded quietly over to his armchair. The fire burned dimly, but was still warm enough to stave off the chill of the June night. He drank the contents of the glass again, and then sat in the armchair until he began to feel drowsy. Merlin, but he was tired all of a sudden. He rose, stretched, and then retired to bed.