A favourite of the department for decades, the Tipsy Tadpole was tattered and worn, but in the same way that fit just right, like dragonhide perfectly moulded through continuous use. Harry’s eyes skimmed over Draco’s features, trying to place him in that shithole so tailored to the DMLE, and the thought alone made Harry grin, wide and boyish. Despite the months they had spent together, Harry had only barely spent time with Draco in public, that the mere thought of sharing a pint with him made Harry’s stomach coil up with want, so pitifully attracted to Draco.<br/>The motion of Draco’s hand against his leg did nothing to discourage a thrill from running down Harry’s spine.<br/>“It’s a rite of passage for any new recruit,” Harry concurred with a hazy grin, and though the words could perhaps be perceived as minimising, they were intended as anything but. Harry spoke as an encouragement, a testament to how seamlessly the DMLE had allowed space for Draco. At the end of the day, Draco was just one in hundreds and it was absolutely brilliant.