Saison d'Être

Harry understood in February. The city was wrapped in that complacent and apathetic time of year, with day after short day of gray skies and two inches of snow that melted as soon as it hit roads hot with the motion of too many people in too small a space. He still remembered that day, just after Valentine's Day, when his coworkers were finally over the panic of dates and roses and lingerie and jewelry. That cute blonde from Research and Development had asked him to dinner, promising it would be nothing more than friendship, but he'd declined. He just wanted to stay home, read, and not think about the strange turn his life had taken over the past few months.

Harry had seen Malfoy more frequently that winter. Sometimes they had dinner; sometimes he let Malfoy take him to polyamorous clubs with music so loud it was felt rather than heard, where no one cared when they lost themselves in the pixilated sweat and pulsating lights. Malfoy licked salt off Harry's neck for a tequila shot and Harry soon accepted Malfoy's dare to reciprocate, reigniting their history of competition. They kissed on the dance floor, Harry directing the night, choosing when and where to accept Malfoy's advancements. Malfoy's hands slid under Harry's shirt, hips grinding, tongues meeting before their lips did, men and women and those in between watching them blend light and dark, enmity and lust, past, present, and future. Harry allowed Malfoy to come back to his apartment afterward, but never to stay, never to sleep. Distrust wasn't unearned that easily.

Timonti's was packed, one of those tiny underground restaurants with no menu and alfredo sauce that melted on your tongue. Harry swirled the wine in his glass, not really wanting to look at Malfoy, who seemed disinterested in whether Harry talked to him or not. For a while they sat in silence, each shrouded in thoughts of the other. This was by far the worst dinner of them all, worse than the ones where Harry pressed to learn what Malfoy was doing in New York, and how he'd found him, and what had happened to Malfoy's family after the war. He never spoke of Lucius or Narcissa, no matter how many cagey ways Harry found to phrase the question. Twirling his fork in his linguini, Harry had to ask.

"Malfoy, why did you come to New York?"

"I had to."

"You mean like on business?"

Malfoy smiled. "Well, you're a little more than business."

"You came...you came to find me? How did you know? I mean, how could you know I was here and not someplace like Stockholm or Chicago or Bombay?"

Rolling his eyes in disgust, Malfoy sneered at him. "Magic, Potter, magic. Have you completely lost who you are? Just because you run away doesn't mean the world stops existing. And you have the nerve to call me self-centered."

"Sorry, I just...when you live without magic for a while, you adapt, you know? You just don't think about that sort of thing."

"You make yourself not think about that sort of thing because you're afraid."

"I am not afraid."

"Bullshit. If you weren't afraid, you'd still be in Britain, helping the rest of the wizarding world try to put itself back together. You'd have the life you're supposed to have and maybe visit your godfather's grave every now and again like a normal human being."

"How did you know about Sirius?"

"By the end, no one had any secrets from anyone. You spend weeks living in tunnels, you bond to the few people you can trust."

"People trusted you?"

"They had to."

"Were you...you didn't spy for anyone, did you?"

"How thick are you? Of course I did. I was the perfect spy, a Malfoy, an initiated Death Eater--"

"Do you regret doing that? Taking the Mark, I mean?"

"No. It's what I was raised to do. It was expected of me, and I went willingly."

This was too much. "I don't get it."

A shrug. "So what else is new? There aren't rules in war, Potter. I did what I thought was right."

"Draco Malfoy has a sense of right and wrong?"

"Shut up. Don't talk about what you don't know. You weren't there, and you don't get to open that fat mouth of yours." Malfoy's words were sharp, but the look in his eyes was distant. Harry caught Malfoy's clandestine expression.

"So fill me in on what you're not telling me."

Malfoy's knife stopped in mid-slice, and his knuckles went white around the stainless steel handle. "Why do you care so much now? Why didn't you care eight years ago?"

"Because...maybe I want to try to make an amend or two," Harry said softly, "and I guess this is as good a place to start as any. But you know I can't help you unless you tell me what happened, tell me the whole story." He paused, gathering courage for the question. "Were you the one that killed Sirius?"

"Wrong Malfoy."

"What?"

"They were going to kill Snape. Lupin too, and at least one of your precious Weasleys. My father was becoming too powerful, and he had the whole Ministry under his thumb. I didn't like doing it, but I didn't really have a choice."

Harry drew air for his next question, but he was interrupted.

"I killed them." Malfoy reached for his water glass, taking a sip just large enough to allow his voice to continue to work. "I had to."

"Who?"

"Them. My...my parents."

"You what?"

"Are you deaf in addition to being an idiot, Potter? I. Killed. Them. It was either them or me."

"You say that like you're picking out a pair of shoes."

"Sod off."

"Sorry. But what does this have to do with me? Why couldn't you just leave me alone, let me live out my life here? And why…why did you kiss me that first time, and how did you know?"

"You ask too many questions."

"You...you didn't want to live without me around, did you?"

"Flatter yourself much?"

"Oh, please. This from the one who harassed me for years just because I turned him down after he insulted my best friend."

"Except now," Malfoy laid down his knife, trapping Harry's ankle between his legs under the table, "there's a lot more at stake than friendship."