Saison d'Être

Harry Potter wasn't really supposed to be here, in a deli in midtown Manhattan, but this Sunday found him wide awake at ten in the morning, staring at a brunch of eggs, toast, coffee, and hash browns. He sat in a booth in the corner of the second floor, watching the other diners. Some still showed signs of a Saturday night spent too late in clubs filled with cheap cigarette smoke and cheaper women dispensing liquor shots in test tubes. He opened his Sunday Times, though he didn't bother to read just yet. A girl was watching him from a nearby table, and she looked down shyly as he turned his head to her. A sketchpad took up a sizeable portion of her table, which was littered with colored pencils.

Pretty girl, he thought. She was tall, with a wide smile and strong cheekbones, wearing bright red lipstick and some kind of gold necklace with a rectangular pendant. Her hand moved over the paper, and he smiled to himself as he watched her steal glances at him. Look up. Sketch. Look up. Sketch. Who was he to interrupt anyone's artistic process?

The air conditioning was up just a little too high, as all air conditioners were in New York this time of year. He had to admit that this was one thing he loved about the Muggle world. Electricity simply beat the hell out of candles and fires; there was no other way to put it. He let the cold air blow over his arms, flapping one corner of his newspaper. Eat, read, turn the page. Ignoring the rest of the dining room, he caught up with world events, trying to decide if he wanted to go to a museum today or just walk around, reveling in the sunlight. Or the library. Maybe he'd go to the library.

"Care for anything else, sir?"

The waiter dragged Harry kicking and screaming out of his Times reverie, standing at the edge of the table looking not quite eager enough to warrant the disturbance he'd made.

"Oh! Um, just more coffee, if you please. Thank you." The waiter left, returning with a half-full pot, and Harry went back to his newspaper.

The next time he looked up, the artist girl had left, and two people were seated at her table. He could see the woman, attractive in a fabricated sort of way, but the man had his back turned to Harry's table. From his corner, Harry could see that the man was casually yet expensively dressed in chinos and a shirt ironed to within three degrees of burning the fibers. He was blond, and though his hand gestures seemed casual, he sat ramrod-straight at the edge of his chair, like a musician ready to give a concert. Straining to hear above the diners two tables to his right, Harry caught a lilt in the man's voice, definitely British, though he couldn't make out the words or pinpoint the origin of the accent.

When his meal was done and the check paid, Harry rose from the table, packing up his Times and his Visor. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Yes. He was in a mood to look at the Arms and Armor exhibit, touristy though it was. As he headed for the stairs, the blond man stood from his table, placing his napkin on the chair and following Harry's path. They walked down the stairs, the man a few steps behind Harry, when he heard the man miss a stair, stumble, and catch himself inches from Harry's legs. Turning in the direction of the sound, Harry saw the man's face. Skin that hadn't seen any appreciable amount of sun in years, pointed chin, gray eyes...and that British accent...

Harry turned and ran down the rest of the stairs and out of the deli, pausing on Fifty-seventh Street to catch his breath. No. How the hell? Was that really? He looked through the plate glass window of the restaurant. What was he doing in New York? They hadn't talked since...since their last day at Hogwarts. When was that? Time lost meaning, the past coming back vividly in colors too bright and sounds too loud. Harry lived as a Muggle now, away from the world that expected everything he could barely give and more. Sure, he kept his wand, and did a few spells around the house, but after the final battle with Voldemort, he had packed what little he owned, converted his inheritance to Muggle money, and moved across the ocean, not looking back until now.

Draco Malfoy stepped through the heavy door, fixing his gaze on Harry, who stood his ground under the restaurant's awning. Without a word, Malfoy walked over to Harry and stood only inches away. He brushed Harry's hair back from his forehead, holding it out of place as both of them breathed deeply, each hoping the other would break first.

"So it is you."

"How very observant. What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

There was no humor in Harry's voice, only the acid burn of years of animosity. He shook his head. "Does it really matter?"

"Fuck yes, it matters! You're the one that packed up and left! You...God, Potter. Haven't you thought about anything since you came here?"

"I've tried not to."

"You wouldn't. You'd leave the rest of us behind to pick up the pieces of a goddamn war and not give a shit, wouldn't you? Your best friends fought in that war, remember?"

"Of course I remember, Malfoy. My best friend...Hermione died." Harry's voice hardened, remembering the circumstances. "She died saving your sorry ass."

"And I'm sorry it had to turn out that way." As though he calculated Harry's next question, Malfoy added, "But I don't wish it had been me instead. I'm not so stupid to believe that bravery is more important than being alive."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least. Always thinking of yourself first," Harry retorted.

"Stop it, Potter. There's nothing we can do about it now. We have to move on."

"Maybe you can. An entire wizarding population wasn't counting on you to save them."

"And guess what? They're not counting on you anymore, either. They've gone on without you, if you can believe for a second that the wizarding world can get by without Saint Harry Potter." The edge in Malfoy's voice felt like it was cutting Harry across the base of his brain, simple words chosen to mark and hurt, inflict the most damage with the smallest amount of effort.

Harry turned away. He had better ways to spend his Sunday than arguing with the person he'd hated more than anyone for seven straight years of his life. Malfoy's reflexes were fast, though, and he grabbed Harry's upper arm.

"Potter, you are not walking away from me."

"Why not? It's not like I've got anything to say to you."

"This isn't about me."

Harry's lips wouldn't form the words, and Malfoy held tight. He didn't let go of Harry's arm, but turned Harry to face him. "That's right. There's no walking away anymore. Go ahead and live as a Muggle, in your overpriced three-hundred-square-foot flat in Tribeca with your radio and your telephone and this disgusting dirty subway system, but you don't get to forget who you are."

"What about you?"

"You'll learn that later. Maybe."

Pulling Harry toward him, Malfoy placed his other hand on Harry's waist and kissed his cheek, a kiss that held the weight of remembrance and the promise that this would not be the last time they met.