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Although he's thirty-three years old today, Harry feels all of fifteen again, awkward and clumsy in Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop with Cho Chang. At least this time it isn't Valentine's Day and both the decor and his companion are far more agreeable. He keeps dropping his napkin, he has very nearly spilled his wine, and he feels fairly certain that he has given the entire waitstaff the impression that he has never been in a restaurant before in his life.
If it is any consolation, he has certainly never been to a restaurant under these circumstances. On a date, certainly, and with Snape, now and again. However, with Snape on a date? Never.
He isn't sure if it would be any less nerve-wracking with another man, or if it is all because of this strange, new side of his relationship with Snape.
He leans close to Snape, as if to whisper something wicked, and instead, boldly steals a kiss from the great bat of the dungeons himself.
Shockingly, the bat only smiles, a slow, seductive smile that Harry never realized Snape's face was capable of making.
Then Snape's slim fingers are on the back of his neck, curling impulsively in his hair, and he barely registers the shocked stares around them.
He does spill his wine that time, but, Snape's tongue entwined with his, he finds that he doesn't much care.
Let them stare.