Saison d'Être

Harry was almost sad to see winter come to an end, an end to that marrow-deep heat that Malfoy brought him in the long icy nights. Not that Malfoy wasn't warm all the time, not that Harry wasn't still thrilled by every touch, but there was something about his presence on a cold night that made Harry feel like life might just be teetering on bearable. He let Malfoy take him to the places he feared, moving forward, past the years of hatred to one of something that might have resembled understanding.

Temperatures rose and the rains came, melting the dirty snow that had piled beside the sidewalks all winter. Wedding invitations turned up in his mailbox, and he was offered many a spot at a dinner party or barbecue, and he went, still holding tight to what he felt was his final need, to be anyone but Harry Potter, savior of a world that he had later allowed to collapse.

"You're thinking about going back, aren't you?"

"Pardon?" Harry stopped swirling the olive in his martini glass and looked up to see Malfoy facing him from the next barstool.

"That look, Potter, like you're on some other planet. You're thinking about going back and trying to fix what you can."

"It's been too long, though, hasn't it?"

"No. It will never have been too long."

"But eight...almost nine years now. I mean, aren't we in a totally different place?"

"I am. You're not. You're still in the same place you were when you got here. You're still scarred. You're still trying to fill in the empty places in your life by working too hard and drinking too many of those goddamn martinis. You need to go back, and you need to go sooner rather than later."

"I can't. It wouldn't make a difference. It's not going to change things, change that Sirius...that Sirius is dead, and Hermione."

"That still hurts, doesn't it?"

Harry nearly choked on his drink. "What did you say?"

"I asked you if it still hurts."

"Thought so. Sorry. I didn't ever expect to hear anything resembling anything other than snobbery out of you."

"So I'm not allowed to change?"

"Well, I do kind of like having the constant in my life," replied Harry, only half in jest.

Malfoy shook his head. "You don't have the copyright on Going Through Hell, Potter. Hate to break it to you. Nothing's the same as you remember. You're going to spend the rest of your life in this wretched cycle of number-crunching and the "I really like you, but I think it would be better if we were just friends" speech if you don't get off your arse and do something about it."

"Thanks so much for the pep talk, Counselor Troi."

"Who?"

"Never mind." Harry turned back to his drink, his thoughts in rhythm with the motion of the plastic toothpick and olives circling the sides of his glass. Sirius. Hermione. Voldemort. Ron. Ron. He hadn't thought of Ron in much too long. Would Ron still welcome him? The rest of the Weasleys, Arthur Molly Bill Charlie Percy...Percy dead, gone, joined the Death Eaters, killed by Aurors...Fred George Ginny. His friends, the friends that became family. He could re-enter the wizarding world, where he was supposed to be. Would they forgive him for leaving? Would it matter? He wasn't doing this for anyone else. He would go to at least try to set things right, to the way they were supposed to be. Malfoy was right. Bastard. New York was nothing but an escape for him. It didn't solve anything, didn't change his past, or the people he'd betrayed, or that he was born magical. Born to parents who would never have run off to live in America when things went wrong. They were better than that, and he had to be, too.

Malfoy leaned over, one hand on Harry's thigh. Harry looked around nervously for people he knew from work, people who would ask questions as to who Malfoy was and what Harry was doing with him. Malfoy's voice vibrated low in his ear, and he pulled his shoulders in at the sensation.

"We need to stop arguing, and you need to let me kiss you."

"What? Here?"

"Yes."

Harry looked up, his hand still. If he let Malfoy kiss him here, someplace normal, when they weren't hidden under darkness and strobe lights in a place designed to feed the libido, it would mean he'd made his decision. He wet his lips, willing himself to look into Malfoy's face.

"Let me kiss you, and come back to Britain with me. You know you need it."

"The kiss or the trip?"

"Both." Malfoy was so close Harry could smell the Long Island Iced Tea on his breath. He had a sudden flash, a need to taste the drink from Malfoy's lips, and in the instant he did, he knew he had accepted who he was, that it was time to leave New York, time to stop hiding, time to go back and finish what he started. Ignoring where they were, he advanced, taking one of Malfoy's hands in his own, sliding the other to the back of Malfoy's head where the cool hair slipped between his fingers.

Malfoy broke the kiss first. "Potter, people are starting to stare."

"I don't care." Harry reached toward Malfoy, who stopped him.

"Yes you do. We're in a restaurant, not a club where we can barely be seen, not that anyone there cares anyway. Finish your drink, and we'll go."

"I don't want to finish my drink." He was intoxicated on the want, hungry for Malfoy's taste of triple sec and Coke, fighting the primal instinct to undo Malfoy's belt and fuck him right there on top of the bar.

"Then we're going." Malfoy stood, dragging Harry out of the restaurant by his wrist and into the street, cold and wet in the drizzling indecisive April. He didn't let go, threatening to break the small bones with the tenacity of his grip.

"You're hurting me."

"Stop being such a twit." Malfoy extended his other hand, waiting.

"You have to face uptown if you want a cab."

"Potter, I can get us a goddamn cab. I'm not that ignorant." One pulled up almost immediately, and Harry thought he heard Malfoy mutter something about no one telling New York cabdrivers that in America you were supposed to drive on the left side of the road. He gave the driver Harry's address, and Harry curled on his side and laid his head in Malfoy's lap.

"Potter, sit up. You're not that drunk."

"You frien' betta not be sick in my cah!"

Emphasizing his polished British accent to the point of seduction, Malfoy drawled, "Don't worry, sir. He's just--"

"You frien' betta not fucking throw up. I'll strangle the sonamabitch. You know how long it takes to get that stench out?"

"Sir, I assure you that--"

"One fucking month, that's what. He pukes and I'll strangle ya both. I ain't drivin' around dis city with that fucking smell in my cab."

Malfoy kept silent the rest of the ride, watching the rushed storefronts and hurried people as he let one hand slip through Harry's hair and over his stubbled cheek. When they reached Harry's building, he coaxed him out of the cab, paying the driver and standing Harry upright in the glare of the streetlight.

"Come on, Potter. We're going upstairs."

"We?" Harry's head felt clearer after the nap and the fresh air.

"Yes, we. And then we are going to get you out of this city and back where you're supposed to be."

"Which is where, again?"

Malfoy took Harry's head in his hands, kissing him in the middle of the sidewalk as dogs the size of cats attached to ancient owners the size of children walked around them. "You don't need me to tell you."

Harry smiled his first real smile in years, and they lingered in the threatening mist, laughing quietly between teasing kisses, not caring so much anymore who saw them. They curled their fingertips into each other's palms, glancing at the people walking down the street. Malfoy pulled Harry to him, brushing his cheek against Harry's.

"Let's go in before it starts to pour."

Harry let Malfoy lead him up the stairs, kissing on the landings between flights. With a glance down the empty hall, Malfoy opened the locks on Harry's door with a tap of his wand.

"Remember that, Potter?" There was still some sarcastic Malfoy in his voice, which Harry doubted would ever go away.

"Vaguely. I think you'll have to spend more time here, making sure I haven't forgotten too much."

"Only if you'll buy some groceries every now and again like a normal person."

Harry's shirt was gone before they made it to the bed, Malfoy swiftly and almost too surely slipping buttons through their holes. Malfoy pushed Harry's hands away, stripping Harry naked before he so much as made a motion to loosen his own tie.

"Not fair," came Harry's mild protest.

"Life's not fair. Deal with it." Malfoy knelt over Harry, kissing down his chin to his collarbone to his stomach, holding Harry's wrists at his sides. Harry tilted his head back into the feather pillows, allowing Malfoy to guide him, to touch him in all the places that made him forget his shame and mistakes of the past.

It was the first time trust between them became something done and said rather than untold and expressed only in the small moans they made as they danced under smoke and colored lights or tangled themselves in Harry's sheets. That night, Malfoy...Draco...slept curled around Harry, breathing in the warmth that radiated from the back of Harry's neck. They existed for the small movements, for the promise of what would come, for the way each completed the other's needs.

So began their era of reparation, their season to be.