Hello, hello, anybody out there?

Because I don't hear a sound

Alone, alone, I don't really know where the world is

And I'm missing out

I'm out on the edge and I'm screaming my name like a fool at the top of my lungs

And sometimes when I close my eyes I pretend I'm alright

But it's never enough

Cause my echo, echo, is the only voice calling back

Shadow, shadow, is the only friend that I have

-Jason Walker

Harry stayed up with Ginny for the rest of the night. They didn't talk much, but they found a certain comfort in not being alone. It was odd how little Harry seemed to know about Ginny anymore—the year they'd been apart had separated them in so many ways. Her fierceness had grown harder, sharpened to a point by the war and the countless things she'd endured at Hogwarts while Harry had been gone. There was an oldness in her voice too that Harry couldn't seem to understand no matter how hard he listened.

By the time dawn came around, they were both ready to part ways.

After a quick breakfast and a shower, Harry took Ginny back to the Burrow, where Mrs. Weasley was waiting in yesterday's clothes, dried tears staining her cheeks.

"Ginny!" she leapt out of her chair and pulled her daughter into a tight embrace. "Merlin, you're alright! Oh, God, for a second I thought…"

"I'm fine," Ginny said tersely into her mother's shoulder.

"Don't you dare disappear on me like that again, do you understand?"

"I was with Harry."

Mrs. Weasley looked up, seeming to notice Harry for the first time since they'd come in. She blinked, her blue eyes not quite willing to focus on him. "Harry," she said gently. "How are you? Ron told me that you two…had a fight yesterday."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley." He didn't bother confirming what Ron had told her. It wouldn't make a difference either way.

"He always was a little emotional, Ron. He'll get over it soon enough," she continued, a little dimly. "You'll come back soon, won't you? For your birthday at least?"

Harry tried to ignore the dull ache growing in his chest and forced his lips to smile. "Of course I will."

"Thank you for taking care of Ginny."

Harry only nodded, not bothering to mention that he thought Ginny could take care of herself just fine.

Harry hadn't slept well since then—a couple hours per night if he was lucky, and there was more than a few nights where he wasn't. The majority of his week was spent wandering aimlessly around the house, trying to find some way to amuse himself. He had gone to London once, to try and run a few errands, but the streets had been impossible to navigate with the masses of people that bombarded him everywhere he went. They'd swarmed around him like bees, their voices buzzing and their hands reaching out to sting him. Men, women and children called out to him, but all Harry could hear was screaming.

I'm sure I don't have to spell out how unpopular ex Death Eaters are with the general populous at the moment.

He knew what Malfoy had meant now.

Attention was never something that Harry had been able to handle well. It made him feel exposed—bared open and vulnerable for everyone to see. He hated it. He hadn't killed Voldemort for the thanks, and he certainly hadn't done it for the fame. He'd done it because people were dying and there hadn't been another option. They thought he was a hero, but that wasn't what he was. It wasn't even close. Heroes didn't get angry; they didn't sulk or brood or complain about the things that had to be done. Heroes didn't hate so passionately it consumed them. Heroes didn't hear screams when they were surrounded by cries of joy.

Dumbledore had been the hero…not Harry.

Potter,

You never responded to my last letter, so I'm sending a follow up to make sure that the Weasleys haven't brutally murdered you in your sleep. If you don't respond to this letter by tomorrow, I'll go ahead and start making plans to desecrate your grave. However, if you aren't dead, I was wondering if you would like to meet again this Saturday. Same time, same place? The sooner you can let me know, the better. I have a birthday party I'll need to RSVP to if you are, in fact, worm food.

-D.M.

Malfoy,

Your concern is touching, really.

I'm sorry I didn't get back to you sooner. I've had a bit of an off-kilter week. I hope you're doing alright, by the way.

I can meet again this Saturday.

-H.P.

P.S. If you'd rather go to the birthday party than meet with me, we can always just wait until next weekend too.

Potter,

Concerned about little old me, are you? I suppose I'm doing alright. I mean, I can't leave my house during the day because of the angry mobs, and a new pack of Aurors comes by every week to ransack the place in search of "evidence", which is basically just an excuse to steal everything valuable we've ever owned. Not to mention that all of my friends' parents are being herded off to Azkaban like cattle. Mother and Father are in quite a state about it, actually. They're probably worried that there won't be anyone left to come to our parties anymore.

So all in all, I'm doing quite well.

-D.M.

P.S. Don't try to wriggle your way out of meeting me just because you want to sleep in, Potter! I see right through your tricks. I'll be there this Saturday. Same place. Same time.

"4AM really doesn't suit you, Potter," Malfoy said, his smirk evident in his voice.

Harry trudged up to the tree that Malfoy was currently leaning against, the toes of his shoes scrapping against the cobblestone as he walked. He nudged his fist up under his glasses to rub at his eyes. "Not all of us are vampires like you, Malfoy," he replied sullenly, far too tired to put any real bite into the words.

"There hasn't been a vampire in the Malfoy line for over two centuries, thank you very much."

Harry sighed and shook his head.

"I'll bring you some coffee next time. You ready to fly?" Malfoy threw a broom at Harry, which he somehow managed to catch without even looking. A responding growl of annoyance rumbled in the back of Malfoy's throat before he said, "I guess that's a yes." He mounted his own broom and kicked off.

Harry mounted as well, following Malfoy up into the air. That seemed to wake him up a bit.

"It's not too far," Malfoy said. "But do try not to fall asleep and slip off your broom on the way. As an ex-Death Eater, I'd hate to have to explain to the Ministry why I was scraping Harry Potter's splattered remains off the street."

"I'm surprised you'd care enough to try and scrape me up," Harry returned.

"Oh it wouldn't be for you. The Malfoys have always been active members of environmental wellness communities. I wouldn't want to be branded as a litterer among my colleagues."

It seemed like something Malfoy meant for him to laugh at, but Harry wasn't quite certain whether or not he should. Something about it would've felt like a betrayal.

Having received no satisfactory response from Harry, Malfoy took off into the night sky and Harry followed him. They stuck pretty low to the ground, never rising much higher than where the smoke from burning chimneys could reach. Malfoy seemed to be following the pattern of the streets below very closely, occasionally making abrupt left and right turns that Harry nearly missed more than once.

Malfoy took them back to the ground not ten minutes later, landing in the terrace of a large, marble building that looked like something out of an eclectic eighteenth century fairy-tale. The building was tall and stark white, with curling wrought iron over the doors and windows, and looming pillars topped with carvings of gryffins and saytrs. Harry stared up at it, feeling very small, and very out of place.

"So is this your summer home?" Harry asked.

Malfoy grinned at him. "So you can be funny. I was beginning to worry that you were as boring as you look."

Harry didn't bother to mention that he hadn't been joking.

"Welcome to the Wizard's Club!" Malfoy said, with a flourishing gesture. His voice sounded very loud amongst the quiet of the grounds.

"The Wizard's Club?"

Malfoy looked at him, his eyes bright. "Where Wizarding families from all over the world meet to network and make dastardly deals."

"Dastardly deals?"

"Potter, if you're trying to impress me with your impersonation of a parrot, I assure you it's not working."

Harry swallowed, blinking. "Sorry," he muttered. "I've just never heard of it."

"I'm not surprised." Malfoy started forward up the marble steps towards two massive doors, depositing his broom at a post along the way. "Most of the members are from pure blooded families, or they're sleeping with someone who's from a pure blooded family."

Luckily Malfoy chose that moment to turn away to open one of the double doors, and thus did not see Harry blush. Harry left his broom beside Malfoy's and rushed up the stairs after him. The door's handle gave a soft golden glow when Malfoy touched it, and afterwards swung open on its own accord. The door opened to reveal a large, high ceilinged room, and a rush of cold wind blew out to stir the warm summer air.

Harry stared down at his jeans and ratty trainers before glancing at Malfoy's freshly pressed robes. He wasn't normally one to worry about being underdressed, but there was something about the mirror-like gleam of the floor that made him nervous to step on it. "Are you—uh—sure it's open this early?"

Malfoy nodded, stepping through the threshold. "Most of the staff is made up of ghosts in order to keep the place running twenty-four seven. The kitchen staff being the exception seeing as ghosts don't eat and incidentally make horrendous cooks."

Harry hummed and followed Malfoy inside, wincing as his shoes squeaked on the marble floor.

There was a desk lining the far end of the room where an old, and incredibly incorporeal, woman stood, watching them. She wore a string of large pearls around the high neck of her dress, which was draped elegantly over her thin frame. It was a style Harry was quite sure no one had worn within the last three hundred years. A wide smile wrinkled her already heavily lined face. "Mr. Malfoy. Shouldn't a boy your age be in bed at this hour?"

"Guinevere," Malfoy cooed. "Shouldn't a woman your age be on display in a museum?"

Guinevere laughed, her white, see-through curls bouncing. "Charming as ever."

Malfoy propped his elbows on the table and gave her a devastating smile. "What can I say, you bring out the best in me, Gwen."

"Your usual table I presume?"

"Please."

"And will you be needing," she coughed delicately and looked at Harry, "a room as well?"

Harry nearly choked on his own tongue.

"Not today, Gwen," Malfoy replied cooly. He glanced back, his eyes flickering down to Harry's agape mouth. "As a matter of fact, I'm afraid we might have damaged Potter's fragile sense of propriety even mentioning it. He's new to the Club, you understand."

"Potter?" Guinevere looked at him again, more thoughtfully this time. "The same Potter that killed…oh…what was his name again? That odd looking fellow that everyone was so scared of?"

"We don't say his name, Gwen" Malfoy answered matter-of-factly.

Guinevere pursed her pale lips at him. "I've always found that rule quite ridiculous."

"His name was Voldemort." Harry hadn't even realized he'd spoken until both Malfoy and Guinevere were looking at him, grimacing and grinning respectively. Heat flamed up Harry's neck and into his cheeks.

"Ah, yes. Voldemort. Thank you, Mr. Potter," Guinevere said cheerily. "Mr. Malfoy, I believe you know the way. I'll send Thomas up to wait on you."

Malfoy turned back to her in an instant, beaming. "You've always been my favorite receptionist, Guinevere!"

"I'm the only receptionist, Mr. Malfoy."

"Nuance. Potter, this way!" Malfoy waved him over through an archway, and Harry followed once more. The archway ensconced them in a long, narrow hall, lined with expensive tapestries and low-burning candles. Another turn brought them into a smaller room, filled with tables donned with white tablecloths and far too much silverware. In the center of each table sat a bouquet of glowing golden flowers, except for one table in the far left corner, which held flowers that glowed silver instead of gold.

"One guess which table is mine," Malfoy said, smirking.

"It's very subtle."

Laughing, Malfoy walked over to the table and sat in the chair that put his back in the corner. He seemed to be in a good mood. Harry took the seat across from him, trying not to gawk at the handles on the silverware, which were shaped like snakes and had emeralds for eyes.

"First thoughts?" Malfoy asked.

Harry bit his lip. "Ostentatious."

"In Guinevere's defense, when she bought those pearls they probably cost her less than five pounds."

"And what about this silverware?" Harry held up one of the four spoons on the table. "What's its defense?"

Malfoy grinned at him. "They remind me of Slytherin and I like them."

"I'm not sure—" But just then Harry was cut off by a ghost floating up through the ceiling. Harry jerked in his chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.

The ghost, a tall young man with dark hair and a rather obvious slit across his throat looked down at him with wide, horrified eyes. "I am sorry sir!" His accent was decidedly French. "I did not mean to alarm you."

"Quit acting like a muggle, Potter," Malfoy chastised. "It's alright, Thomas, he's a universally acknowledged idiot."

"Hey!" Harry kicked out under the table, but ended up slamming his toe into the metal table post instead. He hissed in pain.

"See?" Malfoy said, looking up at Thomas triumphantly. Harry could've sworn the prat actually winked.

Thomas blinked at him. "Hrm—can I take your order, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Champagne I think. Just bring a bottle of something ancient. Potter, are you hungry?"

Harry glared at him, his toe still throbbing. "A little," he admitted petulantly.

"Eggs? Bacon? Toast? Fruit?"

Harry nodded, and Thomas wrote something down on a notepad that he'd pulled from his pocket.

"Is that all, sirs?" Thomas asked.

Malfoy waved him off. "For now. Thanks, Thomas."

Without another word, Thomas sank back through the floor, leaving only a breath of cold in his wake. Silence gathered between them and coiled itself around Harry's throat as he stared across the table at the other boy. The soft glow from the bouquet cast his face in a pale splash of color and made his blonde hair seem nearly white. Harry hadn't noticed before, but Malfoy looked much healthier than he had just one week ago. There was a certain ease in his frame and the way in which he sat that hadn't been there before. Harry found himself oddly glad for it.

"So have you always stared at people like that?"

Air caught in Harry's throat as he tried to swallow, causing him to cough helplessly before replying with an unintelligent sounding, "Er…?"

"You don't even notice you do it, do you."

Harry just stared at him.

"It's really a wonder you made it this far in life, Potter," Malfoy said just as Thomas reappeared with a dusty bottle of champagne. He uncorked it with a sounding pop and poured Malfoy and Harry each a glass before leaving the bottle in a bucket of ice next to the table. Malfoy took his flute by the stem and sipped the bright, bubbling liquid. "Lovely. 1879?"

Thomas smiled at him, his pale eyes shimmering. "You truly waste your palette, Mr. Malfoy. Chef Peetro would murder for a sommelier with your talent."

Malfoy cast a secretive, sidelong glance at Harry. "You see why I tip him so well."

"I wish you did not think I said these things just for the tips." Thomas seemed very serious when he said it. A pained sort of frown pulled at the corners of his mouth as he spoke. "Are you two needing anything else at the moment?"

"Not at the moment," Malfoy replied, pointedly avoiding the waiter's gaze.

Thomas bowed slightly, though his face was noticeably stern. "Very well. Your food will be out shortly," he said, and sank back through the floor.

Harry peered over the edge of the table down at the floor. "I think you might have hurt his feelings."

"Good. That was sort of the point," Malfoy said, gazing idly at his champagne before taking another drink. "A Malfoy become a sommelier? Honestly. If he was going to insult me, he could've at least been a bit more creative about it."

Harry blinked up at him. "Is a sommelier a bad thing?"

"It's a wine expert. They usually work in restaurants with chefs to pair foods with wines."

Harry very much failed to see how that was anything near an insult.

Seeing Harry's blank look, Malfoy continued, "Malfoys are expected to work in politics and produce heirs. That's our lot in life. Not slumming in the kitchens of some restaurant toiling over things that don't matter."

"You do realize that you sound like a complete arse right now, right?"

"That's really a matter of perspective, I think."

"I don't."

"Yes, well you're rather dim-witted so I imagine thinking is rather hard for you in general."

It was odd, that Harry found himself wanting to laugh instead of rebutting what he would have once considered a scathing remark. "Is this how you always are?" Harry asked curiously. "Talking constantly and spouting off snarky one-liners?"

Malfoy smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "I see you're finally starting to catch on then. I was wondering when you'd finally develop a sense of humor."

"What do you mean?"

"You always took things so personally at Hogwarts," Malfoy said. "Every time I talked to you, you always seemed to think it was part of some complex personal vendetta that I had against you, as if I hated you from the moment I met you or something."

Harry frowned at him. "What are you saying? That you didn't hate me?"

"Of course I did!" Malfoy looked offended. "Or I at least had moments of it. You were a right git after all. But there were times when all I was after was a good laugh…at your expense of course."

"Of course."

A brief smile flashed across Malfoy's face before he sobered. Grimacing, Malfoy downed the rest of his glass and poured himself another. "I did…actually bring you here for a reason. I want to tell you something."

Harry shifted in his seat, unable to suppress his curiosity. "Oh?"

"The war ruined a lot of things for me, you know."

"Not just for you," Harry said, trying to sound less callous than he felt.

"I met Crabbe and Goyle here," Malfoy continued slowly, still staring at his glass, his eyes cold and distant. Harry wondered if Malfoy had even heard him. "I was six, and our fathers had been introduced at the Ministry. I guess both Crabbe and Goyle senior had told their sons to make friends with me here because the next thing I knew I couldn't shake them. I…" Malfoy's gaze hardened. "I wasn't a particularly nice child—I had a bad habit of being an isufferable arse—but no matter what I said to them, they wouldn't leave me alone. I even hit Goyle once, which he later told me that he found hilarious. I imagine, at the time, they were much more scared of their fathers than they were of me, but somewhere along the way it became more than that. They were the first people who ever actually…liked me. I got them through school, eviscerated the people who called them dumb, and they made sure everyone around us knew we were a force to be reckoned with. But more than that they were…they were good people, and I was supposed to protect them. I'd promised that I'd…" Malfoy's words cut off as he pressed his lips together. His skin looked stretched thin over the bones of his face.

Harry fingered one of the forks, unsure what to do with hands. He hated the stillness. "Malfoy…"

Malfoy gave a short, mirthless laugh. "I know you don't feel bad about it. How could you? You hated Crabbe, I'm sure, and you had every reason to. He would've killed you that day in the Room of Requirement if I hadn't stopped him." His voice was all stilted vowels and sharp consonants. "But I let him die there in that room. He's dead and I'd promised him I'd get him out alive. I promised him and Goyle that the three of us would be together after the war ended and things could go back to the way they were before. But I couldn't do it. So what kind of person does that make me?"

"Malfoy…what happened in the Room of Requirement…"

"Don't try and tell me that it wasn't my fault!" Malfoy seethed, the pain in his voice scraping down the length of Harry's spine like a knife. "It was, and Goyle knows it just as well as I do! His father was sent to Azkaban this week and when I went to his house he slammed the door in my face like I was a stranger!"

Harry had seen the Daily Prophet article about all of the Death Eaters that had been sent off to Azkaban. Frankly, he'd been surprised not to find Lucius Malfoy among the listed names. But he remembered reading Goyle's father's name there, and Crabbe's and Parkinson's too.

"I wasn't going to tell you that it wasn't your fault," Harry said.

Malfoy looked at him, surprise draining his temper and lifting his brows.

"I was going to say…that it was tragic. He was too young to die when he did. A lot of them were. Lavender, Colin, Fred…"

"I still see him burning in my dreams every night," Malfoy said softly. "I've seen it so much I'm not even sure if I remember how it really happened anymore."

"But we remember them don't we?" Harry asked, gripping the edge of the table. "We remember them and their lives still mean something to us."

Malfoy was silent for a long moment, his expression still as stone, but Harry could see something working behind his eyes. Whatever it was, Malfoy rolled it around in his mouth like sour milk before finally saying, "There are a lot of people who don't want to remember."

Like the Weasleys. They'd all had to be brave for so long…but even still it felt like a breath of fresh air to get it all out in the open. To speak the words and have them heard by someone else who understood them. Harry smiled at Malfoy. "Then Crabbe's lucky you're the one that's still here, and not someone else."

The silver bouquet between them gave a soft swell of light as Malfoy's eyes widened. Slowly, a small grin began to lift his cheeks. "If Thomas started taking notes from you my pocketbook might really be in danger."

Harry ignored him. "Goyle will come around eventually. You'll see."

Malfoy merely hummed and fell quiet as the sound of clinking metal sounded down the hall and rounded the doorway. Thomas, laden with several trays of steaming food, made his way over to the table and began to lay out their feast. Harry's attention on the conversation wavered as the luscious smells began to permeate the air and make his mouth water. It was a feat in itself to wait until all the food was spread out and Thomas had left them to start piling up his plate.

"You know, to some people eating is an art form, but for you it seems to be more of a demolition project."

Harry, who had a medley of eggs, sausage, and pancake on his fork and halfway into his mouth, paused, and then closed his lips around the silver and pulled the food off with pronounced enjoyment.

Malfoy shook his head, the corner of his mouth dimpling. "You're a lost cause, Potter."

"Takes one to know one, Malfoy."