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Universal Chaos	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 13263 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; that belongs to J. K. Rowling. I am making no money from this fic.

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Chapter Three—Harry Tries Again

            Draco woke slowly, and stretched his arms and legs out to every corner of the immense bed in Malfoy Manor. As always, the sheets rustled gently against him, the blankets adjusted their temperature and the pillows their softness with a thought, and the feathers filling the mattress grew crisper or molded themselves to his body with a single cast spell.

            As always, the bed was empty except for him.

            Draco closed his eyes and spent some time looking at the darkness on the insides of his eyelids. It was as good an activity as any other on days when he didn’t have practices or matches, and unfortunately there would be more of those days than not for the next few months.

            At last he sat up and turned his head. The window next to his bed covered half the bedroom wall, and looked out over a perfectly sculpted garden. The grass was clipped short in some places and left to rise high in others, always green and rich gold. Here and there, artificial hills reared, each decorated with an acacia. Paths curved from tree to tree, and between the scattered pools, and in a maze away from the central river that wound through the garden.

            Most of the time, the view calmed Draco. This morning, it failed. There were birds flitting through the garden and deer and antelopes wandering through it, but there were no people.

            Draco wanted someone to share this with. He had laughed when he was a boy at tales of people who had died from a broken heart, but now sometimes it didn’t seem worth the effort to keep his heart beating, and he had to wonder if that would be his own fate.

            Sitting here wouldn’t accomplish anything, though. He had to stand up, and move about, and eat something, and try to come up with activities to fill all the empty, sunlit, stormy days stretching ahead of him.

            His parents hadn’t told him they were considering suicide because of their shame over their lost prestige. They had simply done it, and Draco had been left to find their bodies, hanging from silken ropes in Lucius’s study. Draco had shut up the study and never used it anymore.

            But the image remained to him. What struck him most about it, after almost a year and a half, was the way their arms had been locked around each other, their heads leaning on each other’s shoulders, their hair mingling. They were shutting him out as effectively as the rest of the world.

            Now that he thought about it, he remembered protectiveness from his mother towards him, and a mingling of pride and disappointment from his father. He was uncertain if they had ever loved him. They seemed to reserve love exclusively for each other.

            You’re becoming maudlin, Draco told himself, and rose from the bed, turning for the shower. He would feel better, maybe even ready for a walk in the garden, once he had bathed and eaten breakfast.

            He had just stepped into the bathroom when a soundless shock jolted the house. Draco put his hand on the tiled wall and gaped at the air. Thousands of enemies in the Manor’s history had flung themselves against its wards without hurting it. What in the world was going on?

            The shock came again, and Draco drew his wand and mentally dipped into the network of wards that ran all over the Manor, glittering lines and nets, angles and sunbursts, that responded to his will, or the will of anyone with Malfoy blood given the right to command them. That right had passed automatically to Draco when Lucius died.

            Perhaps it will never pass anywhere else again—

            Draco savagely garroted the thought. He was facing a potential threat, and he still insisted on exposing himself to the anxious martyrdom of his mind? He had been alone too long. Tonight, he was going to accept the standing invitation several of his teammates extended to him after every match and go out to a pub. At least he would be doing something.

            He reached the center of the network of wards and looked along the ones that led to the front door. Some wizards could cast spells that would affect the spirit and mind as much as the body. Draco was not anxious to venture further into the web until he knew there wasn’t a wizard like that at his door.

            A sunrise-colored cloud of magic glittered there instead. As Draco watched, it leaned forwards again and thundered on the wards.

            It’s knocking, Draco realized in amazement. Someone with a lot of power is causing a commotion simply to make sure that I can’t overlook his presence.

            That left Draco blinking and unsure how to respond. But he decided to take a chance. If the wizard was polite enough to announce his presence, it was unlikely that he would use a spell that devastated Draco’s soul.

            Draco sent his spirit speeding along one ward like a wire that stretched above the doors and acted like a camera. He opened the “eyes” of a carving above the door and looked down, hoping he would know whoever it was.

            He realized almost at once that the angle wasn’t good enough to allow him to see anything more than the hair. But since the hair was an eminently recognizable mop of shaggy black, he knew who it was anyway.

            Draco snapped himself back into his body and hurried to throw on a robe, not caring about the unwashed mat of hair still hanging around his own face. Potter didn’t deserve the courtesy of a washed heir to the Malfoy line anyway.

            I’ll make him leave me alone. I’ll use the Dark Arts if I have to. He won’t dare complain, as much damage as he could have caused my wards. I’ll tie his ankles to the back of his neck. I’ll give him heart problems that’ll last for the rest of his life.

            His blood was pounding, his heart was singing in his ears, and he tried to ignore the delicious anticipation that filled him. He doubted Potter, or the actor Potter had hired to impersonate him, would go away that easily.

            That was the good part.

*

            Harry “knocked” again with his magic, and then stepped back to count a hundred breaths before he did it a fourth time. He’d learned this technique from things Ron had said about Auror training. Harry wasn’t about to deny that Auror training was useful sometimes; he just didn’t want to devote his life to it.

            He paused and thought about that. It seemed to imply that he’d made a decision since he left his own universe.

            Maybe I don’t want to devote my life to it.

            At the moment, he was prepared to spend most of his morning butting his head against the stubborn, unyielding wall that was Draco Malfoy’s will. Not because he believed his other self was the best man for Malfoy—what did he know about it, when he didn’t know this Malfoy’s history and had never been interested in a man himself?—but because he did want to convince Malfoy the other Harry was sorry and he wanted to make up for whatever part he might have played in Malfoy’s suffering.

            The count of a hundred breaths was almost up. Harry moved forwards and “tilted” his magic towards the house again.

            “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Potter.” The voice was cold and haughty on the surface, but sounded as angry under that surface as Hermione got when she talked about house-elves.

            Harry stepped back and grinned a little as Malfoy came out the front door. He wore a fuzzy blue robe that had probably seen better days. His hair was fuzzy, too, mashed and muddled in the way that Harry’s hair got when he slept on it. He aimed his wand with precision, though, and his eyes shone with fury that held no trace of sleep.

            “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Malfoy asked conversationally as he halted on his front step.

            “Trying to wake you up,” Harry said cheerfully, “and get you out here so that I could apologize to you.” He couldn’t stop grinning. The sight of Malfoy was—endearing. He looked normal, the way that Harry could envision looking on a morning when he’d slept late, the way he’d seen his friends look.

            Every moment with the other Harry was a moment of intense emotion, as the other Harry took everyday things and obsessed over them to heights of drama that Harry found incredible. He’d decided, as he studied this version of himself, that a big part of the problem was that he’d spent too much time alone, chewing over his mistakes like stale vomit. If he would go out, ride a broom, and scream at the heavens, he would probably feel better.

            But he simply said that he couldn’t feel better until “Draco” believed his apology when Harry told him that, so Harry shrugged and set off to make the apology.

            “And you thought knocking my house over was the best way?” Malfoy took full advantage of his pointy nose to look down at it at Harry.

            “No,” said Harry. “But if I didn’t do it, I thought you would just hide behind your wards and refuse to come out and see me.” He used his wand to conjure a rock and leaned his shoulder on it. He suspected this conversation would take a long time, and he might as well be comfortable. “Wouldn’t you have?” he added. “After all, you do have a lot of things to resent from me.” The other Harry had told him more details of the numerous arguments he’d had with Malfoy, and the gifts he’d tried to send to make up for them. Harry was frankly disgusted.

            He turned his mind away from that, though, and contemplated Malfoy instead, who was a much more interesting subject. Malfoy’s mouth was slightly open, and he looked at Harry as if a purple giraffe stood there instead of an ordinary man. Harry smiled at him, wondering if this was what the other Harry had seen and appreciated in Malfoy. Harry couldn’t imagine someone falling in love with Malfoy just for his looks or his Quidditch prowess. What sorts of reasons were those for falling in love with someone?

            “I suspected it,” Malfoy said, his words careful and proud, etched on the air as if he were carving them into the stone Harry had made. “After the last time I spoke with you. Now I know.”

            Harry grinned more widely. Even Malfoy’s habit of speaking in announcements was cute. “What is it that you know?”

            Malfoy pointed a finger straight at him. Its purpose appeared to be to terrify him. It didn’t work very well. “That you’re not Harry Potter. I know his way of speaking to me, and what he wants from me—no, what he demands from me. You’re not him.”

            Harry blinked and stood up a little straighter. The rock suddenly felt uncomfortably rough. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, honestly enough. He can’t possibly think I’m from another universe. He pushed back his hair so that Malfoy could see the scar, shining plain on his forehead. “I am Harry Potter. That was the name I was born with, and here’s the scar that came with it.”

            Malfoy shook his head in a series of small, quick jerks. “No. I know Harry Potter, I told you, and he’d like me to know him more intimately still.” He muttered those last words. “But you’re not him. You speak with more confidence. He’s a crawling coward, except when he’s angry, and then he snaps out hurtful words. You may have noticed,” he added with an acidity that Harry flinched from. “You’re not him. That’s an easy conclusion. Now, the only interesting thing for me to figure out is why you agreed to act as his proxy in this matter.” He folded his arms and gave a scowl that was far more impressive than his finger-pointing.

            Harry let out a careful breath, never taking his eyes away from Malfoy’s. Malfoy would think that meant he was admitting something.

            Well. Both the other Harry and I underestimated how smart he was. Now what do I do? He didn’t give me any suggestions from this, and I’m not sure I would know how to react to it even from my own Malfoy.

            Harry considered Malfoy for several minutes. Malfoy seemed content to stare at him and wait for him to speak. Maybe he thought he had finally found an unanswerable argument and Harry would turn and slink away in humiliation.

            Unluckily for Malfoy’s wish to be left alone, Harry had given up on thinking his own humiliation was important some time ago. He’d had to do some fairly humbling things in therapy with the Mind-Healers. You either did it or you got left behind and suffered from your problems forever. Harry had a vivid illustration of what would happen if you did that, now, in the other Harry. More and more, he was convinced that his attempt to deal with his problems had split their universes.



            “All right,” he said quietly. He deserves honesty. He might still not believe me, but that’s his own fault. “I’m not Harry Potter as you know him.”

            “I knew it,” Malfoy said, and actually performed a ridiculous little dance, shuffling a step in place and brushing a hand through his hair. Harry smiled despite his worry. He was seeing more and more clearly how the other Harry could have fallen in love with this man.

            “I’m a version of Harry Potter from another universe,” Harry said. “There are spells that span the dimensions, and he called me from a universe that was sufficiently like his—he thought—to produce someone who would give him advice.” No need to tell Malfoy what that advice was; he can probably figure it out on his own anyway. “While I was here, he decided to pressure me into apologizing to you.” He shrugged, seeing that Malfoy was staring at him with his mouth open. “I know it sounds silly, but that is what happened.”

            Malfoy seemed to waver between gaping and breathing for some moments. Then he said, “Why wouldn’t he apologize on his own?”

            Not the question I expected him to ask. But Harry blinked and answered. “Because he’s every bit the coward you described him as. He needs a potion that induces confidence or something. I don’t know what happened to make him like that, but he’s too worried about hurting you again to try and make up for the hurt he’s already caused.”

            Malfoy leaned forwards, eyes hard as fish scales. “And why did you agree to come and apologize for him? Why not force him to do it himself?”

            “I thought it would be a simple task.” Harry gave him a rueful smile. “I didn’t realize how much he’d wronged you, at first. Then I thought I should make up for the hurt that I did to you.”

            Malfoy leaned his forehead on his palm and appeared to be thinking. Harry stood still and let him.

            He found himself mildly entertained. He’d never thought Malfoy could ask this many unexpected questions—let alone that he was insightful enough to realize the difference between one version of Harry Potter and another. This was fun.

*

            Potter could not be telling the truth, of course. It was overreaching the entire point of hiring an actor to impersonate him in the first place. Instead of the sordid little truth, which at least would put Draco and Potter on a more equal footing with one another, he concocted something so grand it simply couldn’t be believed.

            On the other hand, using a dimension-spanning spell and attempting to press his other self into service was just the sort of thing Potter would do. He’d got into one mishap after another in the past few years: waking up drunk with strange men and women, claiming that the Dark Lord was coming back and then having to look foolish when he retracted the claim, making accusations of being a Death Eater against a pure-blood who’d supported Dumbledore’s side. Draco could believe that Potter would be that stupid.

            He was also a powerful wizard, as unfair as Draco thought that. He would be able to manage a spell like that, if one existed.

            But all of that was less important than one other important fact, and so could be considered later. The important fact was that this man, whoever he was, seemed to care about Draco’s suffering.



Draco was not completely willing to end the conversation with him yet.

“How much did the man you call my Potter tell you about my history?” he asked.

“Not much,” Potter, or the man who had replaced Potter, said, blinking his green eyes in an intimately familiar gesture. Draco added a point to the side of the equation that said this man was from another universe. It was either that or he’d spent a lot of time studying Potter’s gestures. “Just that you had started to play Quidditch rather suddenly, after everyone thought that you’d become a politician.”

Draco snorted. “You try being a politician in a Ministry where no one has any respect for your name whatsoever.”

            Surprisingly, the man in front of him nodded. “Or when people have too much respect for it,” he added. “They’ve asked me to be part of the Auror program for years at home, even though I’m not perfectly qualified for it. I was supposed to have a meeting with the Minister and talk to him about it the morning after the night when your Harry snatched me away.”

            Draco eyed him. That wasn’t the kind of intelligent thing that he would have expected Potter to produce.

            But they could have known I wouldn’t expect that, and they may have worked that expectation into their plot.

            “My parents are dead,” Draco said harshly. He wondered if he should betray this much, then reminded himself that Potter had never shown even a rudimentary understanding of his personality, so he couldn’t have coached an actor to take an interest in it. “They committed suicide rather than live with the loss of their money, the loss of their name, the loss of—everything. I found their bodies—”

            “Oh, Merlin.”

            Suddenly the actor was looming in his face again, much the way he had the other day when he’d dared to come up to Draco and touch his cheek. Draco flinched, startled by the sudden movement, before he could stop himself. The actor checked himself in reaching out to Draco this time, but he hovered just in front of him, looking at him with frantic, wistful eyes.

            “I don’t—no one should have to survive that,” said the actor, with a fervency in his voice that made Draco want to forget he wasn’t Potter. This was the way Potter would have sounded had he considered Draco’s pain worth his time, if he’d been his friend, the way he should have been. “I can’t believe you’re still smiling as much as you do and walking around sane. I’m so sorry.”

            Draco took a deep breath. The sympathy eased a little, a very little, of the pain that had lain aching in him so long he had forgotten what relief felt like. He had to stifle the temptation to reach out and lay a hand on the man’s arm, to make sure he was real.

            Of course he isn’t real. He’s just the actor Potter hired, and every bit of his sympathy could be faked.

            But if he was holding true to his theory that Potter didn’t know him at all, then no, it couldn’t be faked, because somehow this actor, unprepared by Potter, would have to know Draco better than a man who’d chased him for a year did.

            Uncaring about the thoughts racing through Draco’s mind, the actor shook his head. “If I’d known that, I would have refused to help him at all,” he muttered, sounding revolted. “You need healing. You don’t need someone to argue with you about your experiences in the war and try to force repayment of your life-debt on you.” He paused and thought about it for a moment, then peered at Draco. “I’ve been through sessions with the Mind-Healers. I don’t know enough to help you completely, but I could try.”

            Draco stared at him with his mouth slightly open. Then he shook his head. “You can’t do that,” he said, in a slight croak, because this sounded too much like one of his dreams coming true and the loneliness vanishing. He knew that couldn’t happen. “Why would you turn your back on—on Potter like that?”

            “Because he doesn’t need my help as much as you do,” the actor replied, looking at him as if he were mad. Those green, green eyes had a familiar dedication in them, too. That was the way Draco had seen Potter look when he dueled the Dark Lord and defeated him with an Expelliarmus alone. “Of course. If I anger him enough, then I reckon he won’t send me home, but simply helping you shouldn’t anger him. Maybe you’d be more likely to consider his proposals if you felt better.”

            Draco backed away and aimed a trembling wand at the man. “Don’t come after me,” he said, in a voice that cracked, when the man took a step closer anyway.

            Potter—Draco’s thoughts broke through the barriers that he was trying to impose on them and referred to the actor that way in spite of him—stood still and looked at him with a calm gaze. Draco supposed he could, so strong was his magic. “But why?” he asked. “You’re hurting. You need help. You deserve help. I understand that you might be too proud to ask for it, but you have a prime example of the stupidity of clinging to the past and not looking for the future in front of you, with my other self. This is something I want to do and I can do, at least a little. So you should let me help you.”

            Put like that, it sounded reasonable. Too reasonable, Draco thought. There had to be a trap here, even if it wasn’t obvious to him. “You want to help me because you feel sorry for me,” he said.

            Potter blinked. “Um. Yes. Is that a problem?”

            “I don’t want pity.” Draco stepped away again so that his back was to the doors of the Manor. “I don’t want you to look at me and sigh because, oh poor Draco, he’s suffering so much from the deaths of his parents, he just needs—” He cut himself off because his own tone was creeping towards hysteria.

            “It might begin as pity,” Potter said quietly. “What else could it be? I don’t know you as an individual yet, and I’m not going to let my perception of the Draco Malfoy from my universe control my interactions with you. But later, maybe it could be friendship.” He hesitated, then added carefully, “The Mind-Healers and the other people I asked for help helped me get my strength back. Now I can offer some of that strength to you. I want to do it. Why shouldn’t I?”

            It was everything Draco had dreamed of: understanding, horror at what had happened to him, a quiet offer made without his having to demand it or do anything but expose his pain. Strength he could lean on. Someone who had solved enough of his own problems not to require Draco’s constant care in return, the way that Potter would.

            Except that this was Potter. Or it couldn’t be. It was someone else, someone Draco didn’t know and had no reason to trust.

            “Stay away from me,” he whispered harshly, to emphasize his rejection, and then turned and leaped into the Manor. He slammed the door behind him and stood there, eyes closed, until he could control his shaking.

            He wasn’t really weak. There were days when he hardly thought of his parents. He had made a life for himself instead of curling up and dying. If he was lonely, well, everyone was lonely sometimes.

            He was not going to compromise his dignity, because he wanted to compromise so much.

*

            Harry stood looking thoughtfully at the Manor for a moment. Then he shook his head and turned to Apparate back to the other Harry’s home. He could conjure most of the other things he needed, but he required food and something to drink.

            He would camp outside Malfoy Manor, knocking every hour, until Malfoy agreed to accept his help.

            Sometimes, you just have to be stubborn.

            He thought about confronting the other Harry, and then shook his head. His lying and omissions and self-centered behavior were less important than Malfoy.

            Not that I wouldn’t like to know what the source of the differences between us is.

*

            SamuraiSaaya: Thanks! As you can see from this chapter, Draco has even more reasons to want companionship.

            And yes, that moment was weird, wasn’t it? ;)

            Mehla Seraphim: A concise description!

            butterpie: Thanks! And yes, I would say that Harry’s enchantment with this version of Malfoy is growing.

            Thrnbrooke: Mostly, the other Harry made a lot of mistakes. They were never lovers.

            SP777: We’ll see what Harry has to see to the other Harry later. At the moment, he’s more focused on helping Draco.

            And I could do that level of description of Quidditch. It’s basing it specifically on a Muggle sport that I’m not sure I could do.
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Universal Chaos