Chapter Eight: Disinclination

You can't prescribe medicine to yourself. The simple reason is, you don't know what's good for you, no matter if you've prescribed the same thing to people in the same situation millions upon millions of times.

The same goes for advice. You can tell a person that they need to get some courage and talk to the person they like. You can tell a person that they need to talk to someone about what's troubling them. You can tell a person that they don't have to take themselves so seriously all of the time.

However, you won't listen to the same advice.

Draco was tired. Bone-weary, exhausted. He was so tired that the only thing that he could think of was how tired he was, until he reached his bed. Dreamless sleep would ensue, and then he'd head off to work to tire himself out again.

The thing was, he didn't have to think when he was tired. Being exhausted made the most mundane of tasks a Herculean effort, and then the most mundane of tasks suddenly became the centre of his world.

And then he didn't have to think about the Weasleys, Hermione, or his father. He didn't have to think about missing people, or obsessing over them, or the past.

All he had to do was keep his eyes open.

One day, he decided to admit that he missed George Weasley.

This was far less offensive than, say, missing Weasel or Potter, so he felt he could admit to it and still remain relatively secure in his Malfoy-ness.

In the middle of his workday, he turned to an aide and said in a quiet voice- he always spoke in a quiet voice, now – "I'm going to take the rest of the day off."

Considering that Draco worked every day of the week from opening till closing, the aide could only mutter "about time".

The bright, orange-and-purple front of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes seemed to Draco to be a tad superfluous. It was very clear that they were doing good business regardless: the shop was packed.

With an expression on his face that could only be described as a smile, Draco plunged into the fray.

Two hours, ten galleons, and one storewide, massive trick wand fight later; the smile was still there. Draco was sprawled across a lurid green-and-pink couch, examining the toy octopus that his wand had turned into. It really was remarkable how amusing these things were.

A carrot-orange head came between him and the light he was examining the octopus by.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Draco squinted at George's face. Surprisingly, he did not seem in the least perplexed that there was a Malfoy relaxed on his couch.

"Hey, Weasley."

Yes, that was definitely the right degree of casual. Draco applauded himself for his social skills.

Due to circumstances he could not understand and a conversation carried out mostly by George, Draco found himself sitting in a little café on a muggle street, having lunch with him. This wouldn't have been surprising or discomforting in itself… but then Hermione showed up.

"I sort of invited a couple people," George said cheerfully. "I hope you don't mind."

Well, he supposed he could put up with Hermione for a lunchtime.

But he definitely wasn't going to make this a habit.

Draco had forgotten the unfortunate propensity of Weasleys to breed like rabbits until so many people showed up that they had to pull together three tables.

He didn't even know some of these people. He wondered what they were all doing here.

Merlin, was that Potter in the corner?

Eventually, George pried him away from his coffee mug and shoved him into the great, wide world of socializing.

Now, Malfoys are known for their social skills. They have faultless manners. They host the most spectacular and elegant parties. They dress superlatively and, in high society, are the epitomes of sophistication.

Eighteen years of being a Malfoy, and Draco's poise went out the window as he was thrown into the sea of Gryffindors.

Heaven forbid that Weasel- RON – would make Draco laugh.

Heaven forbid that Potter was actually being civil, rather than nosy.

Heaven forbid that Molly Weasley extends an invitation to Draco to have dinner at the Burrow "whenever he pleased".

Heaven forbid that he was actually having fun debating potion ingredients with Hermione and watching her animated hands and bright eyes.

Draco checked out the window. He was absolutely positive that somewhere, somehow, pigs were learning to fly.

Eventually, George Weasley called everyone's attention and stood on a table.

"So I imagine that some of you are wondering why we're here. Though most of you may be worried, rest assured that I'm not testing any new products on you… yet."

Chuckles.

This was sounding suspiciously similar to a toast. Draco eyed the nearest table and wondered if anyone would notice if he flung himself under it and army-crawled out of the café.

"I don't think he likes much attention, so that's why I'm going to make this speech as long and uncomfortable as possible," George winked.

More laughter. Draco could just feel his cheeks heating up.

Finally, George got to the point. "Anyways…. May the world be backwards, but one of these days I hope to call Draco Malfoy my friend."

There wasn't any laughter this time.

Friend. The word was strange, and enticing, and just a little bit dangerous. Friends meant that you shared secrets and experiences, and trusted someone.

As far as Draco knew, anyways.

People were back to talking again, and Draco knew that they might not accept him yet, but that they were on their way there.

"I think Dumbledore would be proud," came a voice from next to him. Hermione was sprawled languidly across a chair, head tilted back, eyes half-closed.

Draco looked a little closer, at the pale length of her neck and her hair cascading in bushy waves down the back of the chair, and thought he knew exactly what she meant.

"Inter-house unity was always what he was going for," she continued, and he still didn't know how he was going to respond.

Fortunately, most of the Malfoy fortune remained, so Draco was able to donate a substantial amount of money to persuade the café to remain open exclusively for this group.

He supposed that the reason that he could spend so much time here, surrounded by red hair and smiling faces, is because he couldn't see his father anywhere in the crowd.

It was late when he got home to the Manor. Narcissa didn't ask, just let him sleep.

But she smiled at his back when he wasn't looking. Perhaps he would be able to move on after all.

A/N:

Hello, my pretties. It's summer and hopefully I'll be able to get this fic rolling!

The Dramione is… getting there. I need to figure out a way to have Hermione and Draco spend more time together, and it'll take a turn for the worse before it gets better, but right now Draco's life is looking up.

This is another, lighter chapter, but I'm pretty happy with it. If you would review it, that would make my day

Fulgance- I know, I have a suspicion it doesn't let you know every chapter. But thanks for reviewing both 6 & 7 anyways! I think Draco's wariness is melting… kind of. But that's because he's been engulfed by the Weasleys! Do you think it's plausible, or going too fast? Let me know. And thanks so much for reviewing; I love all the feedback you give me.

And here's a question I thought of, if people want input- do you think Draco should go to a Weasley dinner? xD.

I hope you're enjoying thus far. OH yeah… and I am not JK Rowling.

-Isefyr