Draco owns a café in the city. Harry's a MP who comes in every morning, newspapers in one hand, BlackBerry in the other, and orders a triple espresso macchiato.

"You've always been obsessed with Malfoy, Harry. That should probably tell you something."

It's terribly bad form, sleeping with your ex when you're still half in love with the bastard.

He lights a cigarette across the pub, his hand cupped to his mouth as the tip sparks to life in a faint orange flare, and my breath catches.

"There's no need for being so glum. Twenty-nine's the new nineteen, they say."

The last thing Harry wants is to lose his kids.