Draco closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten, willing himself to have to guts to make the request while he still had the chance. The Wizengamot were still deliberating, pondering his sentence as if it were as worthy of their attention as the choice of which colour robes to wear in the morning.

He supposed it was. After everything he'd felt, everything he'd done – the all-consuming horror of the past few years – he had ultimately amounted to nothing. He had nearly impressed the Dark Lord. He had nearly saved the Chosen One. In the end, he'd been as useless as Longbottom, no matter whose angle you chose to assess things from. In truth, he had been more useless, since even Longbottom had killed the fucking snake and led some kind of guerilla resistance.

And then to top it all off, in a blinding moment of clarity that hit him when his father was chained to the lone chair in the centre of this room, he had seen it all for what it actually was.

It was a strange thing, to realise that your parents could be wrong. How much damage could he have prevented if he'd only realised it sooner?

He cleared his throat. "Excuse me?"

A couple of the debating members turned to him, but turned immediately away again. Only one set of eyes caught his and waited. Draco swallowed.

"May I speak?"

Slowly, the discussion came to a halt and they turned to him. After some whispered discussion, he was motioned to continue.

"I respect the Wizengamot's decision to place me in community service." He spoke clearly, holding his chin high. "I agree that time spent amongst Muggles, repairing the damage caused by the war, will be an invaluable education and a suitable reparation for one such as myself."

He had thought pride a much more insurmountable obstacle, and that this entire experience would leave him choking on his own refusal to kneel. It turned out that pride was a weak and spineless creature; one only needed to catch it unawares.

"May I request, as part of my service, time spent amongst half-blood wizarding families?"

You could hear a pin drop as his words were assessed for any hint of deception. The next words were more difficult, largely because they were the truest he had spoken.

"My years have been spent, largely, in one circle of influence." He spoke to the ceiling, ignoring the piercing green eyes that wouldn't leave him be. "Given this chance to see beyond many things I thought to be fact, I would like the opportunity to experience another. I feel it will assist in my service, and ultimately my transition."

The room devolved into broken whispers once more, and Draco dropped his eyes, unwillingly, to the one person who was silent.

If he had known just where his suggestion would take him, he might have reconsidered.

~oOo~

"Where did you do your Muggle service, Malfoy?" Weasley asked, leaning against his front gate and eyeing Draco warily.

Draco shoved his hands in his pockets and waited, somewhat glad that they were dealing with this here, in the open, instead of crowded into Weasley's house.

"Town Hall," he said, lifting his hands to show Weasley the calluses and scars. "Did you know Muggles build everything entirely by hand?"

Weasley's eyes widened and he looked impressed for a second before he schooled his face back into narrow-eyed suspicion. "And what did you do?"

"Well I'm hardly skilled to build structures out of wood," Draco said drily. "So I worked as a labourer. Digging holes, carting materials. Grinning and laughing when they called me a fag and a pretty boy. The usual thing, I take it."

Weasley's face contorted into a strange expression that Draco couldn't place. Long seconds passed. "Doesn't sound like you would have learned any appreciation for them."

Draco shrugged. "Perhaps not their ettiquette, no. But that's why I'm here, isn't it? So I can walk back into Wizarding society with an "I love Muggles" t-shirt and matching cap?"

Weasley snorted before moving back to let Draco through with a shrug. "I've no idea. The way I heard it, you asked to be here. You're just lucky Bill isn't visiting."

Draco stiffened, but said nothing, following Weasley into the house. He wasn't surprised to see Potter sitting on the couch, but the small frown Potter sent in Weasley's direction suggested that Weasley's little meet-and-greet had been a secret. Weasley shrugged and left them both in the living room, climbing up rickety stairs and into the bowels of the house.

The strangest thing about his work with the Muggles had been Potter. It wasn't as if Draco had been assigned to Potter as a case – they had far too convoluted a history for that kind of power play to be approved, even by the Ministry – but nonetheless, it was Potter who checked up on him week after week.

When his case worker couldn't be bothered making the half hour check in to answer Draco's questions, it was Potter who turned up on a Friday afternoon and took him down to the pub to explain the difference between a nail gun and a hammer drill. When his case worker let him sit in the rain for three hours as he waited for his crew to show up, it was Potter who popped into existence, his hair frazzled and matted, and explained to him about public holidays.

When Draco asked him once, drunk out of his mind after a very long week and a number of self realisations, why he bothered, Potter had gone still. He had looked at his drink for a very long time, before giving a small smile and saying cryptically, "Nothing makes sense any more. I figured if I wanted to land back on solid ground, I'd have to go searching in the unknown."

Draco hadn't any idea what he'd meant by that, but 'searching in the unknown' had struck a chord with him, and from then on he'd felt that was what he was doing. Day after day, hauling bricks and timber through the mud, suffering insult after insult – searching, searching, searching in the unknown.

Potter patted the seat next to him; the couch was worn, but it looked comfortable.

"Mrs Weasley will be down soon. I think you're going to help Arthur in the garage. He's been asked to submit a prototype of his flying car to the Ministry, but since we kind of.. lost... his original, he's had to make a new one. None of us have any time to help him, what with training being too full on."

Draco eyed Potter's Auror robes, once shiny, now caked in mud, and nodded.

"You found a new place to stay yet?"

"Not yet. I'm having trouble getting my funds released. They've approved it verbally, but it still hasn't been signed off."

There was a pause as Potter considered him. "Did you want to move in with me? Just for a little while? I know they've started clearing out the Manor, so it must be pretty busy there."

Draco thought of the hoards of Ministry Wizards pawing at his possessions and breaking down his home piece by piece; busy didn't begin to cover it.

"I'll consider it."

~oOo~

Draco didn't mean to keep stealing the jumper. He didn't even want to analyse too closely why he was doing it.

It was just that it made him think of the way Arthur – he'd given up on surnames long ago – would forget, sometimes, who was passing him the wrench, and would make some ridiculous pun that he could then snort over in a way so unlike what Draco recognised as a father that all he could do was stare in astonishment.

It made him think of the way that Molly would insist on everyone stopping to eat, and how lunch times were so much quieter when all the kids were out at work or training. It made him think of how she got over her initial stilted mannerisms and began to look at him properly. How she began to ask him questions about his day, and the things he was working on when he wasn't here, and whether he had enjoyed learning a skill that – as the Muggles called it – was hands-on.

It made him think of how George had only managed half a day of stony silence before he'd sworn loudly, given Draco a broom, and dragged him out to the back paddock where he'd proceeded to thrash him in backyard Quidditch for a good three hours. It made him think how that had somehow seemed to change everything, and he had clapped a sore and muddy Draco on the back afterwards before heading back upstairs.

It made him think of Charlie, who told them all a story one night about a group of dragon whelps – too young to blow fire – who had blown warm steam at him for thirty minutes as he struggled to free their mother from a trap, and then raked their claws across him as they'd flown away. He thought of Bill, nodding in the corner.

Mostly though – and this was the part he refused to look at closely – it made him think of Harry. The jumper smelled like campfire smoke and warm blankets, and the 'H' was tearing a little in the corner. It made him think of Harry when he'd just woken up on a winter morning and his eyes were still blinking away the sleep.

He was no longer working for the Weasley's, but he had stayed living with Harry, because the bureaucracy of anything else was too much to handle when he was more focused on trying to get a job. Every morning after Harry had left for the day, he would take the jumper from his room and put it on. He could pretend that it was a different kind of morning, a morning where Harry was still waking up upstairs, and Draco had snuck down to cook breakfast, and-

He shoved the thoughts from his mind and flicked the kettle on to boil. The whoosh of the floo caught his attention, and he turned around to see Ginny walking in with a large pile of casserole dishes hovering in front of her.

"You wouldn't believe how difficult these are to move through the floo," she grumbled, before stopping and lifting her eyes from his jumper to his shocked face. "Oh, hi, Draco."

"Hello," he murmured, helping her with the dishes, mostly to hide his reaction.

"Where's Harry?" she asked, an odd smirk on her face.

"At work."

The smirk changed into something thoughtful; it was vaguely terrifying.

Draco sneezed. "Damn, it's getting worse," he muttered.

Ginny finished putting the levitating dishes away and lifted her hand in farewell. "Don't let mum see you've got a cold," she said, her warning tone tinged with mischief.

He sneezed three times in quick succession, and when he looked up, she was gone.

~oOo~

He gazed up at the velvet canopy mournfully. Who knew that a simple Muggle sickness could have you bedridden for days? Still, if all Muggles wiled away their sick time with this tellyvision-thing that Arthur had set up for him, maybe it wasn't all bad.

He flicked through the channels idly, and then looked up at the sound of someone clearing their throat.

Harry stood in the doorway, a small parcel tucked under his arm.

"How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," Draco rasped.

At least his throat no longer felt full of razors. Harry edged forward. Draco couldn't read the expression on his face, but the way he kept running a hand through his hair made him appear nervous. Why would he be nervous?

"Molly made you something," he said, passing Draco the parcel.

Draco frowned and stared at it. "She already brought me more food," he protested.

"And now she's made you something."

He looked from Harry to the package and back again, before finally giving in and beginning to unwrap it.

Something soft and blue slid out, and he felt his fingers stutter as they buried into the familiar wool.

"Is this-?" Draco looked up to see Harry grinning sheepishly.

He pulled the jumper out and held it up, staring at the light blue 'D' for several long seconds. Then, to his horror, he began to cry.

Harry's eyes widened, and he hovered awkwardly above the bed, as if unsure whether he should sit down or not.

"I thought, because you're always stealing mine-" Harry faltered. "I thought you might like one."

"I'm not crying," Draco sobbed.

Harry bit down on his lip. Then, slowly, he reached forward and pulled Draco into a hug. Draco stiffened beneath him.

"If you tell anyone about this-"

"I swear I won't."

"Good, because I'm not crying."

Harry pulled back, his eyes finding Draco's as Draco hurried to dry his face on the bedsheets.

"I'm just sick. I'm easily overwhelmed."

"It's fine," Harry said with a smile.

Draco felt his heart stutter at the sight of it, as it had a hundred times before since he came to live here. He began to shift backwards, feeling suddenly awkward that Harry felt obliged to comfort him.

"Do you like it?" Harry asked.

"Of course," Draco spat, nonetheless unable to fill his tone with the appropriate amount of derision he still fell back on when threatened.

"Draco."

There was a hint of something new in the way Harry said his name, and he looked up, unable to prevent the unexpected surge of hope that coursed through him. Harry looked down at the bedsheets, pulling at the covers until he seemed to come to a sudden decision. He reached forward and ran his thumb over the back of Draco's hand, his eyes caught by the movement.

"I wanted to know if you'd like to go on a date with me?"

Draco's heart swelled, the words replaying over and over in his mind as he struggled to ensure this was real. He took a deep breath, a smile breaking out across his face-

-and sneezed four times.

Harry laughed. "Is that a yes?"

Draco nodded, holding the jumper to his chest and fighting not to sneeze again.

Harry leaned forward, giving him a quick kiss on the forehead. "Go back to sleep. We'll decide where to go tomorrow."