Harry stared glumly into his Firewhiskey. Another year older and what, precisely, did he have to show for it? Only grey hairs, wrinkles and a dose of bloody heartburn.
“Sickle for your thoughts?” Draco asked, sidling to their settee with a glass of his own.
“I’m forty,” Harry said, his tone morose. “I’m hardly Witch Weekly pin-up material nowadays.”
“I don’t know, Potter,” Draco replied. “From here you're looking as attractive as ever.”
Draco put down his glass and slid to his knees.
As lithe fingers undid his trouser buttons, Harry decided that, perhaps, getting older wasn't all that dreadful.