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He was getting too old for this.
It had been different in the beginning: a tryst here or there, maybe once a fortnight if they were lucky. A desperate grope after an Order meeting—hard, fast shagging in any spot with a door to ward.
Then peacetime had come and back strain along with it as he suddenly found himself expected to keep up with a schedule nature had never intended. Blowjobs and buggery thrice daily, no flat surface safe. The bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, the parlour, the garden.
Alastor Moody was going to be the death of him.