"Is this seat free?"

Harry looks up from his drink and is surprised to find Malfoy standing there, not looking at Harry as he scans the crowd. For a moment, Harry thinks he might be having auditory hallucinations and doesn't reply, but then Malfoy looks down, arches an eyebrow, and says, "Well?"

"Yeah. Sit." Harry slumps down and kicks the chair out. It's not the warmest invitation, but then again, it's Malfoy. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"I thought I'd raise a glass to the great wizarding hope, Harry Potter."

Now it's Harry's turn to raise his eyebrows.

"What?" asks Malfoy innocently. "Isn't that what everyone's here for?"

"So I'm told." These days everywhere he goes turns into a celebration for everyone else.

Malfoy snorts. "Listen, I'm going to say this once, and if you ever tell anyone I said it, I will deny every word. If it wasn't for you, I'd be dead. I grudgingly admit that I ended up on the right side, and if not for that my whole family would probably be dead, too, so let me thank you before you start doing whatever it is heroes do after they've done away with the villain."

After he's done, Malfoy looks a little disgusted with himself. He crosses his arms and sits back in his chair, daring Harry to make fun of him.

"Ah," Harry finally replies and there's the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips. "Will you be thanking me with liquor?"

"What, the Chosen One doesn't have a bar tab for life?"

Harry loses the war with his face and grins. "I'm saving that for my late-in-life alcoholism."

"I should have figured," Malfoy says, waving a barmaid over. They order new drinks to replace their empties and toast when the glasses arrive.

"To dead villains," Harry says.

"To alcoholism," Malfoy replies.

They drink and they talk and then there are more drinks and it's good, but Harry's too careful these days to let himself get completely carried away. There's warmth in his belly, but his skin doesn't buzz and his head his clear. Harry always makes sure his head is clear. Everyone tells him that Voldemort is gone now; every sign indicates that Harry destroyed the last Horcrux when he destroyed Voldemort's body, and deep in his heart (or his scar), he knows that's true. But there are still followers to consider, plots against his life, and it's not like Voldemort was the world's only threat.

He knows it's silly. He's young and he's supposed to enjoy his life, but Harry doesn't think he ever learned how. He can almost picture himself at eighty -- limping, even blinder than he is now, brandishing a walking stick, and preaching constant vigilance. It's not pretty.

"Stop crying in your beer, Potter," says Malfoy, looking pinched. He rubs at his own eyes, and Harry notices not for the first time that Malfoy can give him a run in the dark undereye circles race. "Let's get out of here."

There's a big crowd now, one that glances at Harry a lot, whispering to one another. Some of the clusters are brave and inch closer to their table with every passing second. Harry shudders.

"Okay," he says, not even asking where they're heading. Escape is the only objective; so much for constant vigilance.

Malfoy gets up first and Harry follows, flicking the flaps of his old Hogwarts robe back and shoving his hands deep into his jeans pockets. Malfoy is dressed similarly, which doesn't really fit Harry's ideas about him, but Harry thinks of Snape's austere black robes and decides that being a double agent doesn't give a person much time in the way of planning a wardrobe.

Harry stumbles along after Malfoy, out to the streets of London instead of Diagon Alley, again skewing Harry's expectations. They walk together and Harry makes idle conversation, pointing out a mangy dog, a mimeographed flier for a local pub band that looks suspiciously like the Weird Sisters, an old grey blotch of gum stuck to a kerb.

"I don't remember you being so chatty," Malfoy says.

"Are you basing this on our vast social interaction?" asks Harry. "I'm not sure where we'd have fit in the heart-to-heart talks between the petty arguments, murder attempts, and spying."

Malfoy almost laughs.

"I don't remember you being so quiet, either," Harry adds. "In fact, I remember you being downright loud. I couldn't overhear anyone else talking from across a room."

"Maybe you were just listening for me."

Harry abruptly stops walking. Malfoy pauses and turns around, looking. Watching.

"Maybe," Harry says. He starts walking again and Malfoy catches his arm as he passes. "What?"

"I was just joking," Malfoy says. But his hand is gripped tight around Harry's bicep and he's still watching Harry's face, like he sees something he's never noticed before.

Harry stares back. He swallows and tilts his head. Constant vigilance, whispers the old man Moody-Harry in the back of his head. Harry tells him to shut up. He leans in and so does Malfoy and then they're kissing.

Malfoy's mouth is warm and wet and tastes like the brandy he'd drunk instead of the beer anyone else his age would have chosen. He still has a hold on Harry's arm, so strong it borders on painful and he's about a day late for a shave, but his lips are soft and he makes desperate little noises as he opens his mouth and lets Harry push his tongue inside.

Harry doesn't know why he's doing this. He's certainly never considered this with Malfoy, barely considered it with blokes at all, but the hard press of Malfoy's body as he steps forward and pushes them closer together makes him wonder why not.

Malfoy curls his tongue around Harry's, pushes it into Harry's mouth now, letting go of Harry's arm to run his hands through Harry's messy hair, then down, making Harry shiver when Malfoy touches the back of his neck, the length of his spine, the divot right above his arse. Harry has no idea what to do with his hands, so he just lets Malfoy touch and moans quietly, feeling sympathetic aches in his own palms. Malfoy moves forward again, fitting them even more closely together.

A passerby's cluck of outraged disapproval shocks Harry back into reality and he jumps back and steers them both into a narrow passageway between two shop fronts.

"God, where did you learn to kiss like that?" Malfoy looks dazed, his eyes heavy-lidded, fingers grazing his swollen bottom lip and tip of his tongue touching the corner of his mouth.

"From girls," replies Harry sourly, rubbing his own jaw. And it's girls he should be thinking about; girls like Ginny, who is soft in interesting places, who has a laugh that makes her eyes light up, who was supposed to be his prize at the end of all of this but...wasn't. Not Malfoy, who's all angles, a column of bone running from the outline of prominent ribs to pointed hips to knobby knees. Not Malfoy, who looks older than he is and always tired, dark grey circles under his eyes. Not Malfoy, who is leaning in again.

Harry surprises himself with the force of his moan, at the way his fingers clutch the fabric of his own robe, but itch to touch Malfoy. Malfoy's hands are on Harry's face, his thumbs stroking the line of his jaw, making Harry's eyes flutter shut. Malfoy's tongue pushes and twists until it's inside Harry's mouth again, stroking, coaxing, making Harry want.

His jaw aches, his mouth is wide open, his legs move apart to insinuate one of Malfoy's thighs between them, and his hands can't take it anymore. They slide up Malfoy's bony hips, his waist and sides. Harry clutches at Malfoy's shoulders and shoves both his hands into Malfoy's hair, drawing him close, closer, closest. It feels like they're eating each other alive, or maybe they're trying to act alive and this is the only way they know.

Or something. Harry isn't thinking very clearly anymore.

Malfoy's lips slide across his cheek, his throat, sucking, kissing, a slow drag of tongue against sensitive skin. Harry catches one of Malfoy's hands and sucks his fingers into his mouth, one by one, making Malfoy cry out, the sound reverberating against Harry's skin. Their mouths meet again, and Harry licks at Malfoy's tongue, his teeth, the top of his mouth, the inside of his cheek. He can't get enough of Malfoy's mouth, pushing his tongue in deep, hands moving from Malfoy's hair, down his back and under his shirt, wanting hotter, closer, more.

They break apart, panting, staring at each other and not saying anything. What is there to say? Sorry I accidentally got my tongue in your mouth? Harry sighs, and maybe it sounds defeated, but he doesn't feel defeated anymore. He just wants to kiss Malfoy again.

So he does.

It feels like living. And Harry supposes it's about time he starts.

END