Echo

ii.

skin on skin

(no faith)

-

This moment will continue to disturb Draco for the rest of his life: the knockoff Andy Warhol prints beside Harry's bed; his dark hair falling into tangles between his fingers; the florescent green eyes squeezed shut as Draco's mouth lingers between his inner thighs. It's silent, like all of Draco's memorable moments. Soundtracks are unnecessary, and there isn't much to remember anyway, except for the sound of skin on skin.

What he really wishes right now is that he could remember what skin on skin sounds like.

-

It's after a particularly repenting Death Eater Support Meeting where they show each other their tattoos. Some who don't have any claim that they've gotten rid of it because the darkness was too consuming; Draco snorts at this. He knows that the only way to destroy the tattoo is to cut off the flesh, and none of these people look like they've ever had intentions of self-mutilation.

When he's going home he passes by the parking lot where the hissing man with green eyes and the scar talked to him lost; he's slightly curious as to whether he'll be here again. He wants to see him, see if he's lived up to the bits and pieces of previous encounters and conversations that they've shared.

The man does show up, but Draco's heart sinks anyway.

"Do you remember me?" The green-eyed man blinks at him with amusement, his pale skin fading into an off-shade of white. Draco hasn't felt like that for a long time; ever since he's escaped England's worn-out and faded attitude.

(Still, he can't say he's really settled into the lifestyle of glossy art magazines scented with perfume samples.)

Draco isn't sure how to respond to this; now that he's seen him in daylight, he doesn't remember him. He doesn't remember this starved-looking man, with his faded jeans and Salvation Army-worthy t-shirt; his air of one-bedroom apartments above shops scented by the open-window bakeries and fresh peaches. Rough hands definitely escape him; the Harry he knew never had rough hands, despite the harsh Quidditch practices.

When the man sees that Draco hasn't answered, his tone drops an octave and he responds, "It's Harry." His voice lacks the desperate question that's hanging in the air (how could you not remember me...)

Draco nods and says, "I know. Harry."

"If you're wondering how I found out where you ran to," Harry says, "your address is practically published in the Daily Prophet."

"Pity," Draco says with a smirk, "I'd been hoping that you were stalking me."

When this Harry smiles, Draco notes, his face briefly wrinkles. He can see where future wrinkles, lines will mark his face; like a glimpse into the future only Draco doubts any of these predictions are too optimistic.

They start walking together, and Harry eventually falls into Draco's steps. Because it's Harry who's visiting Draco, Harry who's consulting Draco, Harry who's come back to Draco, the rest of the conversation is lead by Draco. Harry asks questions, questions that have to do with Hogwarts, his father, the Death Eater meetings; Draco answers these easily, making sarcastic comments along the way but never looking directly at Harry when he does it. He wants Harry to guess, to take some shot at why Draco refuses to meet his eye. Draco's always been the more attempting, risk-taking one; he's always been the one that was first to apologise, first to bring up something that was a subject of avoidance. This time Draco wants Harry to want him, want his approval, his attention.

Draco knows Harry is still wanted everywhere. Everyone's still begging for a piece of Harry; the wizarding world still needs their hero, but their hero is off here, seeking a "redeemed" Death Eater.

Draco isn't sure who should be more afraid.

"Show me the sights," Harry demands. "I haven't been out of Britain ever, and I'm sure there's more to the world than ugly old post-war architecture and pigeons."

So, Draco talks to him about the sights, the city's dirty subways, and the delirious amount of people dressed in black; how you could walk down in the street in a cloak and other wizarding attire and people would just assume it was the latest trend. This is not enough, because Draco knows Harry's always been a visceral person, so he leads Harry to the abandoned harbour. The city is infamous for days painted in solely greyscale shades and its buildings once so bright fading into a drabby grey. Big, tall skyscrapers made of glass were thought of to add more colours to the city, but it was pointed out that the city had no colours to reflect and thus glass would accomplish nothing.

Harry stares out into the shore of the beach. He turns around, his hair blowing slightly in the breeze, and looks at Draco. "This reminds me of London," he says.

Draco steps over a rock and jumps down from the boardwalk to slide against the support, all the while holding out a hand for Harry. Harry grabs it, and jumps after Draco. They both land on the rough, muddy sand of the beach, and Draco makes himself more comfortable by leaning against the support of the boardwalk and grabbing Harry's wrists to pull him closer.

"Here," Draco says, and kicks away a crushed empty beverage can. He starts by taking off Harry's glasses, still wondering why Harry hasn't tried cosmetic charms or magic contact lenses. In spite of all the grey around him, Draco's eyes, the sky and buildings, Harry's eyes still manage to stay an effervescent green. (I've been dreaming in black and white, but you are colour and I don't know where you belong...)

Draco's done this enough times to know exactly what to do to get Harry to make that little noise that comes from the back of his throat as he's throwing his head back.

This time, there is no steady rhythm, just like the beach behind them. Everything is released at once and sends them panting for air once the careening rush is over.

-

As Harry's buttoning up his shirt, he turns around and says to Draco, "Was this your idea of tourism?"

"No, but I thought you'd prefer this to going to the park." Draco climbs up to the boardwalk and sits, legs dangling. He pulls Harry up as well, and they stare vacantly at the shore. Sunrays peek out from the colourless clouds and strike against the shiny garbage in the sand.

Draco does something he's never done, and places his own carefully manicured and moisturised fingers on top of Harry's rough and chapped hand. He's surprised when Harry pulls away.

-

Draco takes Harry back to his flat just when the sun's setting because he knows Harry will want to watch and he doesn't think he can stand it. The bleeding scarlet shade ripples onto his flat's white exterior, and it looks like the whole building is bathed in blood.

Harry hardly blinks as he realizes all of Draco's furniture is Swedish, and covers himself with the duvet as he's sitting on Draco's eggshell white futon. Later, he slips out and returns to his hotel room, but he doubts Draco's heard him.

-

Draco only wakes up because he realizes he's left the heater off and all his sheets and vast arrays of duvets, afghans, blankets, comforters, do nothing to help keep him warm. He misses England's weather, when you can't really say it's cold or warm.

He realizes that Harry's gone by the time he reaches his kitchenette, after tripping over a pile of laundry and Harry's shoes.

He sips his cold coffee by a window and stares at the plain, brown shoes thinking that Harry couldn't have gone very far without them and that soon, he'll remember them and come back. There have been complaints of broken glass from beer bottles near the bars and Harry might get hurt.

-

"Sir," the usher is saying to him, "you're barefoot, sir. The hotel requires that you have shoes on before you enter the dining area -"

Harry is impatient and hungry but despite this, he realizes that the usher is right; he'll need his shoes if he's going to go anywhere. His heart sinks at the thought of going back to Draco's flat.

After skipping over piles of broken glass and sinking into a patch of soft mud, Harry at Draco's flat, only he realizes he doesn't have Draco's code number. The closest match to Draco's name is Pasfoy, D. Harry decides to give it a try and he's surprised when he hears Draco's voice booming from the speaker.

"Let me in," Harry growls, "I've left my shoes."

Silence.

"Why've you left at all?"

"Just let me in."

When he gets up to the second floor, Draco's already leaning against the frame of his door, dangling a pair of brown shoes with ugly yellow socks stuffed in them. "If I didn't know better," Draco says, "I'd say those were your uncle's socks."

What surprises Harry is Draco's lack of uncertainty when he says these words. "At least I'm not listed as Pasfoy," he says, swiping the shoes. He stares at the yellow socks and in better judgement, dumps them on the carpet and slides into his shoes, sock-less.

"I have no faith," Draco says irritably, as if Harry should understand this.

He doesn't.

"What?" Harry repeats. "Forget it, let me in, we need to talk."

Draco lets him in, and before he closes the door, flicks his wand to Harry's yellow socks and says, "Incendio."

Harry Potter is very much ruled by his emotions and senses, Draco realizes as he sits down on the sofa. Draco knows Harry will fidget to no end when he's nervous and he's got the most annoying habit of drumming his fingers nonstop against a surface when he doesn't know what to write. Harry also makes a weird, humming sound when he's eating his cereal, like he's some sort of machine. The first time Draco ate breakfast with him, he wondered why the Gryffindors hadn't noticed it. Even now, Harry's looking around and staring at Draco's furniture, unable to keep his thumbs from twiddling.

"Are you a Death Eater?" Harry demands.

Draco blinks, taken by surprise. "What kind of a question is that? You already know. All of Britain fucking knows..."

"Britain," Harry says, "knows that Draco Malfoy is the son of a Death Eater. That Draco Malfoy received and still has the Dark Mark, that Draco Malfoy has participated in Death Eater meetings, and that Draco Malfoy's previous home's dungeons were home to some 200 Death Eaters. Britain does not know if Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater."

Draco seriously wonders if Harry is trying to test his patience here, and he says without thinking, "If it walks like a duck, if it talks like a duck, if it looks like a duck, if it smells like a duck, you'd probably say it were a goose pretending to be a duck!"

"I would not," Harry says, "I would say it was a goose raised thinking it was a duck and so it has all the behavioral characteristics of a duck. However, a goose is not a duck."

Draco understands Harry's analogy (and even though he resents from being referred to as a goose), he feels himself falling apart and fading away under Harry's intense gaze. All those hours of rehearsed speeches of what he would say if Harry and he ever, ever discussed the Death Eaters again, those practiced lines laced with glaring and hatred --

Hell, he's still a Malfoy.

"No," Draco says, "a goose is a goose no matter how much another bird might try to change it." He blinks and says, "I'm tired of this analogy, aren't you?"

"I think we're both tired of this analogy," Harry says. "Dumbledore once said to me that it was the decisions that made us who we are, but you haven't made any."

This is not entirely true, as Draco's made the decision to receive the Dark Mark, to follow in his father's footsteps, but his other choices (such as writing those ridiculous letters during the most dangerous times, showing Harry his Mark) surely, surely outweigh those.

"If you think of it that way," Draco says impatiently, "then you need to examine the reasons why you're here and why you didn't leave with just remark and walk out the door, like you always do."

Harry's face spreads into a much-needed smile and he leans closer to Draco, whispering, "I have."

-

It's easily the best sex Draco's ever had, with Harry's soft-again hands and a different illumination in Harry's eyes, one that's more smoky and easily sends Draco slipping into a rhapsody of black, green, and sounds of skin on skin.

They're sitting on the bed, Harry's wrapped the duvet around himself and Draco's lying down on the bed beside Harry's hands, staring at them intently, as if trying to figure out why and how they had become so soft again.

Harry begins to talk. "I think you're tired of this city, of these places. Of all the places you could have chosen, you had to choose the one that most resembled London? - I hate to think what that says about what you're subconsciously wanting." Draco says nothing, and Harry looks down and realizes that Draco's eyes have adapted to the same colour as the rest of the city; a cold, slab of gray. "What I mean is- you need to get the fuck out of here," he says, his tone lowered.

"What about you?"

"I've always gone where you've gone," Harry says quietly, "what makes you think that'll change now?"

Draco can hardly get his next words out. "I can't just leave my apartment like this."

"Would you rather," Harry says cheerfully, "Hit Wizards come and plant bombs so they can blow the whole building down? You may be 'redeemed' but you're still on the War Crimes List, you know. One owl and I could have a whole troop of American and British Hit Wizards in here, destroying every piece of Swedish furniture and hand-made quilts you've got..."

"This is blackmail," says Draco.

"The end justifies the means," Harry responds.

-

Harry and Draco decide to travel in a muggle aeroplane because it would be too suspicious if they appear at an Apparition point together. Draco finds it amusing that even though Harry, who's lived with muggles all his life, has never seen or been on an aeroplane. Harry points out sourly that Draco has never seen or been in one, either, but Draco ignores this.

During take-off, Draco's eyes are wide because Harry suddenly grips his arm.

When they're finally on the plane, Draco knows that Harry is probably wondering where he gets the money for the leather suitcase, all the Swedish furniture, the designer clothing. However, Harry doesn't ask because he knows if he did, Draco would ask him why he's been living off the wizarding world's fame all this while.

At least, Draco thinks fervently, working for a broomstick company beats working for the British Ministry. The secrets are less sophisticated, unlike the Ministry's secrets where one tug could bring the whole thing plummeting down.

("If A times B times C equals less than the cost of a recall ... we don't do it," he remembers telling some poor aspiring Quidditch team on a hold-over in Gringotts.

"Which broomstick company do you work for," they asked nervously.

"A major one," he replied.)

Harry finds flying on an aeroplane too restrictive. He refuses to admit the sinking feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach every time he feels the plane jerk, tumble, or sway. Ten minutes into the air, Draco finds Harry leaning against the rest of his seat and sleeping. Draco asks a flight attendant for a pillow.

Their flight stops for an hour in New York City; Draco tries to convince Harry that nothing is wrong and perhaps the pilots are just feeling lazy and need more than the tasteless coffee on the airplane. Harry's head hurts, and Draco remembers he's got some acetylsalicylic in his suitcase and gives it to him. Harry falls asleep again.

It turns out that they have to stop to let passengers from another plane on. A man dressed in vague wizarding attire sits in front of Draco and offers his hand.

"My name's Tom," he says. "This is your first time on a Muggle aeroplane."

"How can you tell?"

"The way you're staring at that oxygen mask," Tom says, "you're not quite sure what it's for?"

"Supplying oxygen?" Draco supplies helpfully.

"Oxygen is a gas," Tom says, sitting back confidently and crossing his legs. "And you must know what muggles use gas for. Muggles get high on it ... when you're 6,000 feet in the air and you're high, there isn't much you can do but allow your fate."

Tom should be a name Draco's familiar with, but Draco can hardly remember his own mother's name. His movements, his eyes, his hair should be familiar to Draco, but thirteen years is a time that lets go of old things young boys play with.

The flight is long, and Draco is tired. During the flight, he has a nightmare about a sword and the entrance to a chamber, but he decides to take the Freudian interpretation. Harry doesn't dream. When Draco wakes up, Tom is gone.

-

When Harry wakes up, his first words are, "I still can't understand what happened that day with you, Neville, and Cruciatus."