"So what are we doing again?" Jarold asked.

Draco spun on his heel to walk backwards, leading them away from the Leaky Cauldron where Jarold had asked to meet, "And I said it would be more fun as a surprise."

"I don't like surprises," Jarold said, furrowing his brow.

Draco sighed melodramatically but answered all the same, "A park."

Jarold's brow furrow deepened, "Why?"

"Well, you wanted to go to one before. My friend suggested that if we went at night, there wouldn't be anyone to glare at us," Draco said. He turned back around and waved for Jarold to keep following him. "There's one around here, I think."

"Yeah," Jarold said, pointing, "That way."

Draco gave him a look.

"It's the one I tried to go to before," Jarold said.

Draco nodded and shorted his stride to walk next to Jarold, conceding the pathfinding to the other bloke. "How did you find it the first time?"

"What?" Jarold asked.

Draco shrugged. "Well. I wouldn't say you look scared to be in muggle London, per se-"

Jarold frowned.

"-but you certainly look uncomfortable. I can't imagine you spend a great deal of time here," Draco said.

"Yeah, well," Jarold said a bit defensively, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his loose jacket. "Don't really have any reason to be here, do I?"

"I wouldn't know," Draco said carefully. "We haven't actually talked that much."

Jarold nodded and was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, "When I was little, my mum would take me with her shopping around here. She said that muggle shops had things we didn't."

"Didn't you say you had too much accidental magic as a child?" Draco said.

Jarold nodded, "Yeah. She'd only take me when it was quiet, early in the morning and stuff."

Draco waited, but it seemed Jarold had no interest in continuing the conversation.

Draco broke the silence, "There are a terrible lack of wizarding playgrounds, aren't there? You'd think we'd have at least one in Hogsmeade."

Jarold shrugged one shoulder, "Yeah, I guess."

"Then again, all wizarding children are prone to accidental magic, so it could be dangerous." Draco kept talking, letting his mind wander, "But when I would have play dates as a child, they were never dangerous. The accidental magic we did do was almost always to prevent injury. Although I did once make a hedge sculpture of a hippogriff come to life in a fit of pique, which scared me so badly, I screamed like a banshee, and it burst into flames. I don't know If I did the second part or if it was one of the house elves watching us. I had nightmares for months about that."

"Sounds a bit dangerous, that last bit," Jarold said.

"Doubtful," Draco waved off the idea, "And even if we were hurt, it was nothing magic couldn't fix."

Jarold brow furrowed.

"Perhaps if you were to build a wizarding playground, you'd always have to have someone there keeping an eye on things, like muggle lifeguards-"

"What's a muggle lifeguard? It's- life isn't something you can like protect like that," Jarold said.

"They work at muggle swimming pools, and save someone if they're drowning," Draco said. "I suppose if I were being pedantic, I would describe them more as protecting against accidental death, but guarding life does have a nicer ring to it."

Jarold frowned, "We've got floating charms and anapneo and what-not if someone drowns. Muggles... how do they even manage? Like getting the water out? And everything?"

"It's called CPR." Draco said, "They press on the chest to pump the heart and breathe in the person's mouth until they suddenly cough and throw up all the water, or at least that's what I've seen on the television. I've been told that isn't always accurate."

Jarold made a face.

"Yes, well, they make do the best they can," Draco said.

Jarold hesitated, then asked, "Err... what's a television?"

Draco sighed dramatically, "What are they teaching in muggle studies these days?"

"How to dress, so you don't look like a berk, and how to cross streets on the signal and about car machines and-"

"Yes, yes," Draco dismissively, like he had even taken muggle studies and hadn't had to pick all this up on his own after leaving school. "Well, a television is a muggle technology, which is like their magic-"

"Muggles don't have magic," Jarold said.

"Not real magic," Draco said, "but they can make devices that can do nearly magic things, like cars and planes and-"

"Televisions?" Jarold guessed.

"Yes, precisely," Draco said. "So muggles will perform plays, very complicated ones, and record them with one of their devices that allows them to replay the play anytime they like on their televisions. It's fantastic, far better than books or magazines."

"How's that any different from photos or Omnioculars?" Jarold asked.

"Thewholeplay. Hours and hours of stuff," Draco said, trying to think of a way to say it that Jarold might understand better. "Like, muggles have this sport called football, and they record the entire game, with the announcers and scores on the screen and the recording device moves to follow the ball-"

"Can they watch it again?" Jarold asked, his interest perked.

Draco nodded, "There's this thing called a VCR, I haven't a bloody clue how it works, but it can make a copy of whatever is on the television on these plastic bricks and then you can re-watch it whenever you like."

"We could learn a lot that way," Jarold said thoughtfully, "Watching the other team's plays and other games and..." he frowned.

"What?" Draco asked.

"Well, I don't know any muggle-borns who could teach me how to do any of it," Jarold said, disappointed. "I'd need a recording device and a, one of those televisions, and what-not."

Jarold stopped and turned to Draco, "But you must know some muggle-borns, to know all this stuff."

Draco shook his head.

"Wha-"

"I know quite a few muggles, though," Draco said. "I don't know if they'd have any more knowledge about it than I do."

Jarold blinked at him, too surprised to respond.

"Yes?" Draco said.

"Well, uh..." Jarold said, "I dunno; you don't seem like the sort of person who knows muggles, is all."

Draco snorted and said sarcastically, "Is it the pure-blooded bit or the slytherin bit?"

Jarold's expression read to Draco as that of someone who wasn't sure what to say because every answer was the wrong one.

Draco laughed, "Don't worry about it."

"Alright... We're almost there," Jarold said, awkwardly starting down the pavement again.

And he wasn't wrong; as soon as they turned the corner, Draco could see the park. It had just about everything a kid could want, swings, a slide, a climbing frame and other things.

"You were right; nobody's here," Jarold said.

Draco hung back as Jarold went into the playground and tested out each of the different things. He went down the slide, though he barely fit, and spun on a large metal circle frame. He had to crawl on his hands and knees to explore a little fort made of plastic panels, bumping his head along the way. His last stop was the climbing frame.

Jarold easily pulled himself up the metal bars; the red paint rubbed away in the middle where hundreds of tiny hands had grabbed it before. He sat down, right at the top, looking out over the playground with a distant, contemplative expression.

Draco followed him but only climbed a few bars up before deciding the rest were not worth the effort. He looped his arms around a bar, resting his weight against the cold metal, his head just about level with Jarold's knees.

"...You know, it's fine if you don't like me," Draco said carefully, making sure his tone was light.

"What?" Jarold said.

"I know what I did was-" the word caught in his throat, "-unforgivable." He tried to clear his throat with a forced laugh, "Not everyone can be like Iris. Jasmine is more understandable, and Emad didn't even know-"

"I don't hate you," Jarold said pragmatically. In fact, he seemed confused that Draco had even brought it up. "Or dislike you. I guess I can see why I ought to, but I was just a kid. I didn't know you or your family."

"Oh," Draco said.

"And like... like maybe if my Da had been into Voldemort instead of quidditch, maybe I would've done the same thing as you," Jarold said.

Draco laughed, more out of surprise than anything, "Father and his Voldemort hobby."

Jarold smiled uncertainly.

Draco shook his head, "But you wouldn't have joined that lot just because your Dad did."

"I was eleven, so probably not," Jarold said.

Draco laughed.

"But if I was the same age as you, I would have," Jarold said.

Draco's eyes widened.

Jarold shrugged one shoulder, "Quidditch is the only thing my Da really cared about."

Draco slowly nodded. Jarold had fallen into quidditch because it was the only way he could relate to his father. And Draco... Draco had shaped himself in his father's image because that was the only way to earn his father's praise.

"But you're different now, so it's alright," Jarold said.

Draco held his breath for a moment before saying, "...I've tried."

Jarold nodded.

"And you...?" Draco said carefully.

Jarold looked down at him, his brow furrowed.

"I changed, but you haven't," Draco said.

Jarold blinked, his confusion only growing, "It's not the same, is it? I mean, quidditch is alright."

"Well, yes, but it being the only thing in your life-"

"It's different," Jarold cut him off stiffly. "You don't get it."

Draco raised an eyebrow, "Explain it then?"

Jarold sighed and glared out at the dark playground. "It's what I'm good at. It's my thing, my one thing. It's easy for you lot to talk about doing other things and being different now, but I don't have nothin' else."

"Have you tried?" Draco asked.

Jarold bristled at that, his shoulders tightening, "I went to school, didn't I? Took the same classes as everyone else, did my best, didn't I?"

"And you were just rubbish at it all?" Draco asked, not believing it for a second.

Jarold shrugged in frustration, "I did alright, I just- I don't-"

"What?" Draco asked.

"It's different," Jarold said stubbornly, "It feels totally different. Like, I've spent my whole life being the clumsy oaf who doesn't know what to say or do, but on a broom, I'm good, I can fly better than most, got dead-on aim with the bat. I'm good. Everything else just feels like trudging through muck."

Jarold let out a huge sigh, "Just cause I can do the other stuff doesn't mean I want to, you know? ...I'm not sure what I'd do if I couldn't play anymore."

"It's not that great," Draco said.

Jarold snorted. He stepped down a metal bar, turning and jumping to the ground in one fluid movement that left Draco feeling a bit jealous. Over the last, however many years, his body had turned into something resembling pudding. Things he used to do without a second thought now seemed to take far more effort. Draco wasn't sure what was more to blame, the drinking, lazing about in bed for ten to twelve hours every day, the drinking, or forgetting to eat much other than alcohol.

Draco hopped down onto reddish mulch surrounding the playground equipment.

"You said you played seeker?" Jarold said.

Draco nodded.

"Hm." Jarold said dismissively.

Draco's eyebrows rose.

"Nothing wrong with seekers; they gotta be strong flyers with quick reflexes. Keepers gotta have good reflexes too, and instincts to watch the play and keep track of the quaffle, good hands too."

Draco started to grin, suspecting where this was going.

"Chasers, they got to be agile flyers as well as strong, with a good arm and good reactions," Jarold said, his eyes shining with a mix of admiration and pride.

And beaters- Draco thought.

"And beaters," Jarold said, "They gotta be all of that, and they have to do it with a stick. We have to know where the ball is, where the players are and where the bludgers are. No head strikes, cause that's a foul, can't miss with the bat and knock another player, that's a foul, can't touch the ball, that's a foul," he ticked each one off on his fingers. "And best play is to hit the bludger towards the other teams' ball carrier, to disrupt the play, or towards their keeper to keep him off the ring, without fouling. Beaters get the most injuries of any position too, and that's not counting practise injuries."

"That's a lot more complicated than how we played it at school," Draco said, remembering how Vincent and Greg would just try and hit the bludger as hard as possible. It was considered a good play as long as it didn't hit anyone on their team.

Jarold nodded, "Yeah. Hogwarts games were kids' stuff. I read up as much as I could about professional play. And I Got to talk to Catherine Fullbright when I was sixteen. She was Beater for the Applebee Arrows for eleven years; she gave me some good pointers. But it was still a shock. The quaffle's smaller, you know, and the bludgers are bigger."

"I remember hearing that the snitch is faster, too," Draco said.

"Yeah, charmed to be fastest at the start of play and gradually slow down to pedestrian play speeds," Jarold said.

"Really?" Draco said.

"Yeah, takes about two hours, but it helps keep games from goin' on for days like they did in 69' and 75'," Jarold said.

"When did that change?" Draco asked.

"91'. The decision was passed 16 to 9 by the Quidditch rules commission board," Jarold said.

Draco couldn't help but notice how much more eloquent and engaged Jarold was when it was talking about Quidditch. He seemed infinitely less tense but talked quickly, like he was expecting someone to cut him off at any second. It was intriguing.

Draco had only been impassioned about Quidditch so far as beating Potter went. And winning. Winning was the important part, which he was often forced to leave to other incompetents. Draco frowned at the shape of his own thoughts and shoved them out of his mind, turning his attention back to Jarold.

"Tell me about being a beater," Draco said.

Jarold blinked at him, "What do you want to understand?"

"Why you like it," Draco said.

"It's not about like. It's more- more-" Jarold took a deep breath and let it out, gesturing broadly with his hands. "It feels like that."

"Relief?" Draco guessed. When Jarold shook his head, he guessed again, "Satisfaction?"

"Something like that, yeah," Jarold said.

Draco frowned faintly in thought, trying to think of similar words that would work in this context.

"It's like, there's nothing like hitting a bludger and knowing you got the angle and speed just right, seeing it go where you wanted it to go, changing the movement of the whole pitch from one play," Jarold gestured passionately with his hands.

Draco noticed out of the corner of his eye that some woman walking by the park was glaring at them. Draco recognised her type, the kind that would call the police on you just for existing. He managed to get Jarold to walk out of the park and down the pavement in a random direction without breaking Jarold's flow of conversation.

Jarold's conversation quickly fell into a level of technicality that was entirely beyond Draco. Jarold was talking about muscle control, angles and velocities and how to attribute spins to the bludger, his hands moving to outline plays and lines on an invisible field of play only he could see.

Draco steered Jarold around lamp posts and news boxes as they walked, more interested in Jarold's animation and passion than in what he was saying. After Jarold exhausted all the 'basics' of being a beater, he started talking about a specific move he had been trying to perfect. He called it a ricochet hit. Draco thought it could use a catchier name, personally. But it was where Jarold hit a bludger into the quaffle mid-pass, knocking it out of the opposing team's possession.

"The first time I did it was an accident," Jarold said, "But I knew I could do it again if I tried."

"And have you?" Draco asked.

"Once," Jarold said, he held up a finger with an absolutely triumphant smile.

"And that's why you're desperate for more game time!" Draco said in sudden understanding.

Jarold nodded, looking a bit sheepish.

"I thought it was-" Draco stopped.

"What?" Jarold asked.

"It seemed like, when we first met, that you wanted to play in a game to 'prove yourself' like an ego thing. That not playing was hurting your pride or something," Draco said.

"Oh," Jarold said. He was quiet for a moment, then nodded, "Yeah. Makes sense. ...It's a bit of that too. The way people talk about beaters, I want to prove them wrong."

"Question," Draco said, "Have you ever told your coach any of this?"

Jarold squirmed, looking like a nervous little kid and entirely at odds with his big frame. "...wouldn't be right."

"Really?" Draco said.

"Yeah, she's like the coach. I couldn't," Jarold said.

"She's not a teacher; you're not going to get in trouble for talking. You're both adults," Draco said.

Jarold grimaced, "Yeah, but...."

Draco sighed, "If she had any idea about all your angles and velocity and shite, she'd be fucking, well, intrigued at the very least. Have you ever thought about what you're going to do after playing?"

Jarold blinked, having trouble keeping up with Draco's prattling, "Uh..."

"You'd be a brilliant trainer, I bet, or even a coach," Draco said.

Jarold shook his head, more in bewilderment than disagreement.

They had stopped in front of a yarn shop. Even though the listed hours said it was closed, the lights were on. A quick scan of the display showed why; a large, handwritten poster board advertising free knitting classes.

Draco's eyes lit up, and he grinned, "What you need is practise."

"For what?" Jarold said.

"Talking, of course," Draco said. He pulled open the shop door and grabbed Jarold by the sleeve, pulling him inside with him.

"Erm, I don't..." Jarold said nervously.

Draco ignored him, "Hello! Are we in time for the knitting class?"

"Oh? Well, we end in about an hour, but you can certainly come in and join us," An older woman's voice called back.

Draco dragged Jarold past the spinning racks of patterns and the shelves of all sorts of yarn in every conceivable colour and texture. Up by the register, a bunch of chairs had been set up in what space was available, making something like a lumpy oblong rectangle. The group consisted of seven older women of the silver-haired variety, though two had dyed the silver to brown. Or tried. One of the browns looked distinctly purplish.

"We don't get many young people," The smallest of the group said, her glasses thick and white hair neatly curled.

Draco saw some of the other women's nervous looks at Jarold and went to work to setting them at ease.

"Don't mind my friend, Jarold; he only looks scary. He's a puppy, really. He hasn't the foggiest how to talk to people, so he just ends up looming, you know the type," Draco said.

He steered Jarold to an empty chair next to the small woman who seemed the friendliest of them.

Jarold, to his credit, ducked and hunched nervously, "hullo."

"I was just talking to Jarold about how he needed more hobbies, and some practice talking to people. You only get better at these sorts of things by working on them," Draco said as he walked to the other end of the rectangle and sat beside the woman with the brown dyed hair, giving her his most winning smile.

"My Davey is the same; he's lucky his Penelope is happy to do the talking for him," one woman said.

There were nods around the group, and they began sharing stories about their sons and husbands that couldn't hold a conversation to save their lives.

At some point, the little old lady beside Jarold, Betty, lent him some knitting needles and bright blue yarn, patiently teaching him how to knit. The needles looked absurdly small in his large square hands, but he was managing somehow.

Draco had been handed a pair of needles but he hadn't gotten past using them to emphasise his point as he chatted with the women next to him. And they, in turn, were delighted to have fresh ears for all their years-long petty dramas and squabbles.

It was nearly midnight when the yarn was wrapped up, and the needles were put away. Jarold had managed to knit a square of blue which eventually promised to be a scarf. Betty had insisted he keep the needles and yarn he had been using.

"I never did like the colour," Betty said, "but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it."

"I offered to take it off your hands," Louise pointed out.

"You said the colour was garish-"

"At first, but it grew on me-"

"Well, then you should have said-"

"I did!" Louise said with a laugh.

Jarold offered out the skein of yarn, "You can have it, if you want."

Louise waved her hand, "It's fine. It's fine. I didn't like it that much."

To which Betty gave her a very pointed look.

Despite the meeting being over and everything packed up, they kept chatting for another half an hour. Which Draco had no problem with but excused himself and Jarold when he noticed that Jarold had gone quiet.

The night air had a chill as they stepped outside, and Draco rubbed his arms to try to warm them.

"Let's find somewhere quiet where we can apparate from," Draco said.

Jarold nodded tiredly, and they walked together until they found a narrow alley. Draco was about to leave first, but guessing at Jarold's exhaustion, he offered, "Do you want me to side-along you?"

Jarold hesitated and then nodded. It took a while for him to gather the energy to say, "thanks, Hogsmeade is good."

Draco dropped Jarold off at Hogsmeade and gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder as they parted ways.

Draco returned to Potter's flat, focusing hard on the destination so he would land softly and not disturb Potter. But upon landing behind the couch, he froze, startled by the lights being on and the noise that he took a second to realise was the television; the volume turned to a low murmur.

Draco breathed. He could see the top of Potter's hair, a few silky black curls peeking above the couch cushions and tiptoed around to the front of the couch.

Potter was asleep, his glasses half falling off his face, a pile of half-folded laundry on the cushions beside him. It was all terribly wrinkled.

Draco's brow furrowed as he fought to keep an infuriating smile off his face. He reached out, letting a lock of Potter's hair slip through his fingers, the smooth, heavy strands, so much thicker than his own baby-fine hair.

"...Ginny?" Potter said, his voice sleep rough. He blinked and went a little cross-eyed, trying to focus on Draco's face, "Malfoy?"

Draco swallowed down the bitterness at the back of his throat and said, "You know there's a spell to fold these, don't you?"

"I don't know it," Potter said, wincing and reaching up to rub his neck as he sat up.

Draco had to laugh, "I don't either."

He dropped onto the other side of the couch and picked up an unfolded shirt from the pile. He shook it out, making the wrinkles more visible. Draco snickered and haphazardly folded it into a semblance of a square.

"Where did you learn to fold a shirt?" Potter said with a frown.

"I didn't," Draco said.

"Of course not," Potter sighed.

"It's good enough," Draco said.

"No," Potter said.

"Just 'no'?" Draco asked.

"Just no," Potter said.

Draco laughed.

Potter picked up the shirt Draco had just folded and refolded it, his hands deft, smoothing the fabric as he went into a very neat rectangle with slightly less wrinkles.

Draco rolled his eyes and decided to stick with folding trousers and socks instead.

"Did you find the leftovers?" Draco asked.

Potter nodded. "Where were you anyway?"

Draco raised an eyebrow at him.

"It's past midnight," Potter said.

"Where were you?" Draco shot back.

"Working," Potter said.

Draco snorted.

"We raided a potential potion smuggling workshop. The site had to be locked down and fully inventoried, and Robards wanted our reports today while it was still fresh in our minds," Potter said, his voice dull, exhaustion seeping back into from just the memory of the day.

"You'll get tomorrow off, at least?" Draco said.

Potter was quiet, his silence saying everything.

"Seriously?" Draco said.

Potter's mouth twitched down, "It's-"

"-fucking ridiculous," Draco finished for him, not wanting to hear whatever bullshite was going to come out of Potter's mouth. "Harry-fucking-Potter, you are Harry-fucking-Potter-"

"It's fine-"

"It's the exact opposite of fine; it's a fucking travesty!" Draco said, "You are-"

"I know," Potter snapped. "I know who I am. Fuck. Enough Malfoy."

Draco scowled at him, "I-"

"Where were you?" Potter interrupted.

"Potter-"

"You never said," Potter said stubbornly.

"A therapy meeting thing," Draco said dismissively. "You're at least getting overtime, aren't you?"

Potter shrugged one shoulder, "What sort of therapy meeting? Your group doesn't meet until...." he looked over at the schedule on the fridge, squinting to try and make out the dates.

"We had a homework assignment to hang out together," Draco said before Potter could answer.

"With who?" Potter asked.

"You don't knowanyone in my group," Draco said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, go on and tell me, then," Potter said.

Draco rolled his eyes, "Jarold."

"And you did-?"

Draco sighed heavily, throwing a balled-up sock at Potter's chest, "We went to a playground."

Potter frowned in instant confusion, "...Why?"

"To play on the things?" Draco said with an obviously tone of voice.

Potter continued to stare at him.

"Then we went to a knitting club meeting," Draco said. He was really enjoying himself now.

"I- Knitting? Why the fu-"

"To learn how to knit, Potter," Draco said.

"I-"

"You should call in sick tomorrow," Draco said.

"Malfoy-"

"I could call in sick for you if you like," Draco offered.

"I'm not calling in sick," Potter said.

"Make you a deal," Draco leaned forward, "If you go to work tomorrow-"

"I will."

"And it's utter bullshite, a complete load of crock-"

Potter crossed his arms over his chest.

"If anyone else in the Auror's could do it, after you spent, however the fuck long, working today, then the day after tomorrow, you call in sick," Draco said.

"How is that a deal?" Potter said, "I mean, what am I getting out of it exactly?"

Draco waited for a second to see if he was joking. He wasn't.

"You get a day off, Potter," Draco said.

Potter looked unconvinced.

Draco shook his head, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Potter snorted and was trying very hard not to grin, "A lot of things, I'd imagine."

"Merlin's saggy bollocks," Draco muttered.

"Maybe you just need to sweeten the deal," Potter suggested.

"What do you want?" Draco asked flatly.

"Maybe I want to learn to knit," Potter said.

"They aren't meeting then," Draco said. He had no idea when the knitting club met.

"A playground thing, then," Potter said.

Draco narrowed his eyes, "You want to go on a date? I will take you on a fucking date, Potter, if that's what you want."

Potter looked a little flushed, "Well, I mean-"

"Deal," Draco held out a hand. "We'll go out if you call in sick-"

"But not tomorrow," Potter said.

"The day after tomorrow-"

"Only if they didn't really need me," Potter said.

Draco sighed.

Potter waited.

"Yes. That's right," Draco said flatly.

Potter grinned and shook Draco's hand, "Deal."

"Thank god, my arm was about to fall off," Draco said, rubbing his shoulder.

Potter snorted in amusement.

"And take your fucking socks." Draco scooped up the pile of socks and threw them into Potter's lap, "I couldn't find a single pair."

"Oh, I don't match them; I just grab two out of the drawer and pull them on," Potter said.

Draco narrowed his eyes, "You're disgusting."

Potter burst out laughing, and Draco threw the pile of folded trousers at Potter as well.