A/N: Ah... I always hated re-stocking shelve, but not as much as serving people. Don't worry, Malfoy does have a plan later. Now he's just making trademark cameos. Jk owns them all!

Ron finished the wands and went out, his arms laden with several boxes of them to re-stock the shelves with. That was something he could do, was be the one to help replace things that had disappeared. Well, only if he felt like it. He knew he was really heartless sometimes and a total prat, but he didn't really care honestly. Emotions were overrated anyway. More of a feminine sort of thing really. He knelt down to place a few boxes into where they were supposed to go. People kept walking past, several kneeing him in the head and muttering apologies he wasn't sure he was even going to accept. One person kicked a box, almost on purpose and when he looked up, he could see why.

"Not to sound like I care, but honestly Weasley no need to bow to me." The voice droned, but a hint of malice trailed along after his words.

"Bugger off Malfoy. I really don't want to have to deal with you." Ron said, standing up, a box of wands clutched in his hand. Several of the tips were poking out slightly, through the hardened grip of aggressive tendency.

"Oh, is little weasel, busy? Working?" He let out a laugh, which sounded a lot harsher than laughs should be, "How trivial. But I suppose, you and Mudblood need a nice little bin, don't you?" Malfoy simply smirked after this and kept on his way, with a casual jingle in his pocket as galleons hit galleons. Something was wrong, seeing as Malfoy never just walked off, in the six or seven years he had known him. Usually he cursed him, or caused bodily harm or mental harm to him. He never just walked off. Well come to think of it, it was more of a strut. Whatever, he wasn't going to get technical over how the twit walked. Ron merely shrugged, and knelt back down to pick up the rest of the boxes, and then to place them back in storage just so he wouldn't have to put them on the shelves. Plus, he could get a sandwich or some ice-cream, he was due for a break, or he'd report the twins for slave labour. He snorted, regally, thinking of Hermione how she would say things about the poor wittle innocent house-elves. Nasty little creatures, he couldn't see the reason to fight for their rights. Laughable, really. Ron sniggered to himself.

"Excuse me, where are the Snackboxes?" A voice asked trying to break through the barrier between subconscious and customer service.

Ron plodded toward the door, his mouth already ordering what he wanted. "Banana and Strawberries perhaps…" he mused, a hand rubbing his chin for a moment. He looked to his side to see a girl with rough features staring at him in confinement, "What?"

"The Snackboxes." She said curtly, her eyebrows furrowing together in an agreement of anger.

"How the heck should I know?" Ron countered, "Why ask me, I'm on break." He claimed, continuing toward the door. Really, girls these days had no compassion. Always about them. Never took into account what he might've been doing, it's always what they want and they have to have it instantly. How selfish.

"Well, if that's the way you treat your customers, you just lost yourself one."

"Like I care!" He called after the girl, who had some issues. Ron scrunched up his eyes angrily, his mouth contorting into a pained crease in his face. He had heard two sets of footsteps coming toward him, and then two equally exasperated sighs.

"It wasn't my fault. You know how women are." Ron pressed on obviously not joking or pretty sure he wasn't lying, as he continued to glare at the door furiously. He didn't wait for their responses, as he walked out the door, stripping the shirt off, and revealing a t-shirt with a Chudley Canons t-shirt screaming out against the black robes and dark clothing. He'd forgotten to snatch his robes after exiting the stupid joke store. Wasn't his fault that girl had gotten so overly dramatic. It was her fault because she was staring at him like a bloody dog looking for a meal. Through a nervous habit he'd picked up during the summer, he began roughly cracked his knuckles, trying to fix his eyes on where his feet were leading him. A small child and mother hurried in front of him, the child kicking a screaming, and dragging it's heels in the ground. The child kicked and thrashed at his mother several times, before breaking away from her and running away crying about a toy or broom or something. She hurried past Ron and basically slapped him across the stomach, face and other regions with her bags. Ron let out a few curse words through his twisted mouth, which made a man come over and begin to lecture him the same way Hermione had always done to him in his earlier years at school.

This day just wasn't going that well.

Back at work, things were remotely better. At least there weren't any kids throwing tantrums or people lecturing him. After another 5 gruelling hours at work, Ron was let free by his brothers and his hands were all too glad. Several paper cuts lie in several illogical intervals on his palms and in-between fingers, as he had been dealing with the bloody self-forging letters. He really couldn't actually sum up how annoyed he was, from over nine hours of thought and work, it made him physically and mentally tired in many ways. This time, he had remembered his robes so made his way out of the store, hands clutching onto his pay like it was the cure to all of his problems. Actually, it might be, the way things were going.