It's A Shame

Chapter Two: Pride

Two weeks later, she was able to feel that his behavior was, in fact, altered by something plaguing his mind (or perhaps his conscience, she thought, if he even has one). He had accepted an invitation for dinner at The Burrow, which was a rarity, though, admittedly, it was not a strange occurrence. He sometimes accepted the weekly invitations as a sign of gratitude towards the Weasleys. They were the only family who were willing to trust him after he decided to leave the ranks of Voldemort. He wasn't the type of person to say "Thank you," and he tried to make up for it by tolerating a few hours of Weasley chaos every few weeks.

So while his presence at The Burrow was not unusual, the fact that he hadn't once insulted Hermione was.

He barely maintained eye contact, didn't comment on her prudish dress, didn't even notice that she was carrying a large leather-bound book around with her, and didn't insult her lineage.

It was weird, but she seemed to be the only one who noticed.

"Hey, Ginny," asked Hermione, as she sat down next to Ginny. They were in the backyard, seated at a large picnic table, waiting for Mrs. Weasley to call them in for dinner."Did you notice that Malfoy is acting a little . . . distant?"

"He's always distant, Hermione." Ginny rested her head in her hands and watched Harry and Ron as they played a game of Quidditch. Hermione noticed a small infatuated smile on the girl's face, but didn't point it out.

"Yes, but he hasn't insulted anyone today," Hermione continued.

"You mean, he hasn't insulted you." Ginny turned to Hermione, smiling deviously. "Maybe he likes you."

"Oh don't be ridiculous, Gin. Draco Malfoy doesn't like anyone but himself."

"I don't know . . . " said Ginny, looking past Hermione at Draco, who was standing beside the table, watching the Quidditch game. The summer breeze tugged at his blonde hair and the tails of his white shirt, and his hands were stuffed in his pockets. "There was a time, before . . . you know . . . .that he, well, it seemed like he hated himself for becoming a Death Eater and all. That's why he still only wears long-sleeved shirts, even in the summer, because he doesn't want anyone to see his the scar his Mark left when . . . I mean, we all know it's there; it's not like anyone would be surprised to see it. No one would judge him. But he still hides it, like he's ashamed or something."

Hermione nodded, looking curiously at Malfoy, until she caught his eye, and she turned away.

Malfoy turned slowly away from Hermione's gaze, wondering if she knew how she was affecting him. He was still pondering why she had been worried about him and the only thing that he could come up with was that she wasn't worried about him, but worried about something else; she just happened to show that she was worried about this other thing while she was brushing past him. It was purely a coincidence.

The only reason he was not satisfied by this explanation was that she kept looking at him oddly, as if expecting him to break down and start crying.

He didn't have time to think about this long, because Mrs. Weasley called everyone inside for dinner, and he was momentarily distracted by the realization that he had been seated next to her.

Her fortunately (or unfortunately depending on how he looked at it), was not Hermione. Her was Fleur.

He had nothing against the Delacours as a family, and he rather enjoyed looking at Fleur, for she was extremely attractive. But Fleur was bossy and seemed to think that she was the high authority on everything.

Draco Malfoy hated being told what he should and should not do. And at the present moment, he was being told that he should really host one of the weekly dinners at Malfoy Manor, instead of putting Mrs. Weasley ("Molly" she called her) through the hassle of "'aving to prepare a dinner for all zeeze people."

The dinner party had become unusually quiet. The only person who didn't seem aware of the discourtesy in such a statement was Fleur herself (and maybe Fred and George but only because they weren't really paying attention to what was going on).

Bill, who was seated next to his wife, cleared his throat. "You know Mum doesn't mind, Fleur," he said. "Besides its easier for everyone to just come to the Burrow."

Fleur frowned. "Well, I didn't mean to say zat your mother . . . ."

Bill rested his hand on her knee. "It's okay. Let's just get back to eating, shall we?" He looked pointedly around the table and dinner slowly continued.

Draco was going to leave it at that, but he really didn't need Bill Weasley standing up for him. His pride prevented him from accepting any help in winning his petty battles. His mouth opened before he even realized what he was doing.

Pride is a folly at times.

"Actually, that sounds like a good idea," he said. "As long as it's alright with you, Mrs. Weasley?"

Mrs. Weasley colored and put a hand to her chest. "Oh, that would be lovely," she replied, trying not to seem overly excited. An invitation to Malfoy Manor was not to be taken lightly, for it was not given out lightly. It was a compliment.

"Right then," said Draco, his voice a little constrained. He just started to realize the ramifications of what he had done--Mother was not going to be happy. "I'll see you all on Sunday at five."

Mrs. Weasley nodded in confirmation, and dinner once again continued.

Draco's eyes immediately fell to his plate as he contemplated how next Sunday would go. It would be awkward, he was sure, and he would probably make a fool of himself more than once. He hated looking like an idiot, feeling like everyone was looking down on him, thinking, "I can't believe he just did that!"

It made him feel small and Draco Malfoy was not small. In more ways than one.

He looked up briefly and found that Hermione was studying him from across the table. She still looked worried about him, but there was a hint of curiosity in her brown eyes and her lips were turned up in a little, appreciative smile.

It made him feel a little better about his rash actions. She was looking at him kindly and that must mean something good. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but remember why he had never liked her in the first place. She was a muggle-born and, inevitably, below him. He realized that, although he had changed since he was in school, he still clutched onto the belief that purebloods were always better. He didn't think he would ever lose that belief, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.

The tricky thing about beliefs, though, is that they aren't always right. They are a matter of opinions, and opinions have the nasty habit of changing before you even knew they could be changed.

Later that evening, Hermione was helping Mrs. Weasley and Ginny clean up after dinner when Mrs. Weasley suddenly sat her wand down and said, "Good heavens! Dinner at Malfoy Manor!"

"What am I going wear?" exclaimed Ginny, doing a mental examination of her wardrobe.

Hermione smiled reassuringly. "It's just dinner. You can wear what you normally wear. There's no need to blow this out of proportion."

Mrs. Weasley nodded. "I suppose. I wonder why he invited us. It does seem a little strange for him, doesn't it?"

"Yes," answered Hermione thoughtfully. "I think he . . . I think he might be changing, Mrs. Weasley."

"Well, he's a good boy. He's had to do a lot of things in the past few years that went against what a Malfoy stands for. The poor thing . . . ." Mrs. Weasley shook her head, trying to forget about the horrors of Voldemort's reign.

They were silent for a few more minutes, when Ginny exclaimed again, "What am I going to wear?"

-end of chapter two

(tbc)