After Draco left, Harry had found himself back at the bar. He’d ordered a few more drinks, flirted with the bartender, knocked back shots with a twenty-nine year old man from Liverpool who was blond but not blond enough, and instead of taking things any further with him—instead of leaning into his tactile touches, the slide of his fingers against Harry’s arm and the back of Harry’s neck, the flutter of breath against Harry’s ear as he spoke over the thump of music—Harry had listened to his inner Pansy and snuck off to his room instead, alone.