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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 Five—A Night at Malfoy Manor

            Harry smiled and stretched full-length beside one of the pools in Malfoy’s garden, trailing his hand in the water. This was the kind of use wealth should be put to, he thought lazily. Who cared about jeweled daggers and golden watches and some of the other silly things he’d seen pure-bloods carrying about? There was no reason for that sort of thing. It made much more sense to create beautiful outdoor places that other people could appreciate, and which would always be changing their beauty when you went to look at them.

            “You look as though you’d never known a day’s unhappiness in your life.”

            Harry rolled over, not taking his hand out of the water, and saw Malfoy staring down at him with a twisted expression on his face. Harry knew the twisting came about more because of pain than because of jealousy or anger, and so he answered more calmly than he would have answered the other Harry if he said the same thing.

            Face it, you don’t like the other Harry.

            But the thought wasn’t relevant at the moment, so Harry put it away. He would much rather concentrate on Malfoy.

            “I have,” he said. “I went through the same things that my twin from this universe went through. Well, up until two years ago, anyway. Then I decided that I wanted to get help for my grief, and I reckon he shut himself up and did nothing except fall in love with you. And study magic to bring me over from my universe, I suppose.”

            “I don’t want to talk about him,” Malfoy said, dropping into a crouch beside him. Harry knew that he did well to hide his expression of delight. That was much more undignified than he had thought Malfoy would act this soon, but Malfoy would get offended and stiff again if he saw Harry liking that part of him. “I want to talk about you. Why did you decide to get help? Why is the decision so easy for you to make and so hard for me?”

            Harry stored his questions for later. It did seem that Malfoy might know something about the other Harry—perhaps even the things that the other Harry was so reluctant to share with him—but Harry didn’t want to press him. Malfoy had suffered more than enough pressing from people named Harry Potter.

            “It wasn’t an easy decision,” Harry said. “I lay awake for nights worrying about it even after I started meeting with Mind-Healers. I worried it would change me, somehow, from the person I was into one I didn’t want to be.” He shivered. That was still a fear, and one of his worst fights with Ron had come when Ron said that he didn’t know or understand Harry anymore since he got therapy.

            Harry had gone frantically to Ares Ellison, the Mind-Healer who had helped him most, when he heard that, and Ellison had told him that no one could figure out whether he was changing and whether he wanted to change but himself. Harry finally managed to decide that he liked what was happening, and he had the perfect counter to Ron’s next accusations.

            I reckon I grew up.

            Ron had gone red in the face and yelled more loudly than before, but he’d eventually come and apologized. He was afraid that Harry changing meant Harry might not want to be his friend anymore, that now he would think Ron was too immature for him. It didn’t take a lot of words after that to soothe his fear.

            “I don’t worry about that,” Malfoy said, scornfully. Harry looked towards him and saw him wavering back and forth on his heels, staring into the pond. “Why would I? I would give anything not to be the person—” And then he shut his mouth tight and stared at Harry distrustfully.

            Harry could complete the sentence without trouble. Not to be the person I am now.

            “Who are you?” Malfoy demanded with his eyes narrowed. “Are you a Mind-Healer yourself? Did you cast a charm? I’m talking to you in a way that I’ve never talked to anyone, at least not since my parents died.”

            Harry rolled over on his stomach and kept his gaze fixed on Malfoy’s face to show that he was serious, though his hand stayed in the water. It felt nice and cool on his fingers. “Maybe it’s time,” he said. “I’m who I told you I was, and I haven’t had time to train to be a Mind-Healer.”

            Malfoy scoffed. “I know that you aren’t really Harry Potter. You could be a Mind-Healer for all I know, and fifty years old behind that glamour or that permanent Polyjuice or whatever it is that you’re using to look like him.”

            Harry raised his eyebrows. It seemed that Malfoy wasn’t willing to listen to the truth. Maybe logic will work. Ellison often lobbed logical questions at him when he was acting irrationally, and eventually Harry would calm down enough to listen. “Why would I choose Harry Potter’s face to help you? You have every reason to hate him.”

            Malfoy turned suddenly red and scuffed at the ground with a foot. Since he was squatting already, that almost toppled him over. “That’s not important. Or interesting.”



“Yes, it is.” Harry sat up this time and reached out for Malfoy’s hand. Malfoy snatched it impatiently away. Harry let him do that. He hasn’t had many choices. “I’d rather know more about you, the most I can. And knowing why you choose to respond to me even though you don’t believe me is both important and interesting.”

Malfoy glared at him. “Do you never get angry? Do you always have the patience of Professor Flitwick?”

Harry shrugged. “I can get both angry and offended.” He thought of his fights with Ron and the one with the other Harry that morning. “But I’m better able to control my temper and decide what I should get angry and offended about.” He glanced pointedly towards the Manor. “I’m getting hungry again. Are you going to invite me in?”

*

            Draco hadn’t had someone pay him this much personal attention in a long time, and it was unnerving.

            Oh, sure, his fans always stared at him, and swooned when he smiled, and followed his every movement as reported in newspapers with vicious fervor. His coach would stare at him with narrowed eyes and then condemn him for a move that had one percent of something wrong with it. Muggles who didn’t know him—Draco had ventured into the Muggle world a few times—would admire him with a sideways stare that they seemed to think was subtle.

            But he hadn’t had someone ask questions that Draco should have been able to fend off easily but which he floundered with now because it had been so long since someone asked them. He hadn’t had someone nod as if his every response was interesting, even the ones that were no more than grunts. He hadn’t had someone ask about the history of the house and expect normal answers, instead of ones that they could twist to their advantage or take away to add to their infatuation with him.

            It didn’t fit Potter. Even, Draco thought, one from another universe, who would still be like the Potter he knew in some ways—had to be, if he had the same parents and the same face.

            But neither did it fit a Mind-Healer. Draco had inquired into seeing one—not that he was about to tell this stranger that—not long after his parents committed suicide. The descriptions he received terrified him. They began to dig, and went on digging until they had every bit of your pain rescued from underground stores, and then they made you face it all at once.

            He knew he couldn’t stand that. He would either run away or break apart and weep in front of the Mind-Haler, and either was humiliating.

            But this Potter—actor—man—Healer—whatever—dropped questions that he saw Draco getting uncomfortable about, and talked as much about normal things as he did about healing and pain. He closed his eyes with delight when he tested the meal of chicken and swan that the house-elves had prepared, though if he had ever had swan before, Draco would be very surprised. He laughed when Draco told him jokes, though they were halting jokes and years out of date. He turned around in his chair and craned his neck back so that he could see the ceiling of the dining room when he wanted to look at it.

            Draco didn’t understand it. Not the man himself, and not the way he permitted him to stay in the house instead of sending him away at once, the way he should have.

            “What do you really want from me?” he was comfortable enough to ask when Potter twisted around again in his chair from staring at the ceiling. “Not just to heal me. I know better than that.”

            “You shouldn’t ever have had to learn that.”

            Neither the soft voice nor the shining eyes was something Draco had expected. He cleared his throat and looked back at his plate, but the soft voice pursued him.

            “You deserve to believe that people will always be interested in you—interested in healing you, interested in helping you achieve your best.”

            “Will you give over?” Draco stood up sharply enough to tilt his chair over backwards. He thought he would have banged his head on the chandeliers if any hung low enough, but of course his ancestors had foreseen accidents like that and hung them higher. “What you’re saying sounds good, but there’s no way it can be true. There’s no way that you can care that much about me.”

            “Why not?” Potter blinked at him, a string of swan meat hanging absurdly from his lips. Draco had to control the temptation to march around the table and snatch it away from him. He didn’t think touching this Potter—this version of Potter—damn it—was a good thing at the moment. “I don’t think that you’re the only one who deserves that, you know. Everyone does. I have it. You don’t. That means you should have it, too.”

            “You’re not making any sense,” Draco snapped, and turned around to prowl into the sitting room near at hand. He wasn’t hungry anymore. “The only people who care that much about each other are family and friends.”And lovers, he thought, but he wasn’t about to say that in front of a man who was probably still out to win him as a lover for Potter. “You’re not my friend, and I think I would remember if I had a brother.”

            Potter laughed, and sat there finishing up the swan. Draco shut the door of the sitting room behind him, not inviting Potter to follow.

*

            Harry grinned a little as he pushed the door of the room where Malfoy had gone open and found him sitting in a chair before the fire, a book spread on his lap that he was staring at intently. He wasn’t reading, of course. Someone who was reading turned pages every once in a while.

            Harry didn’t intend to confront him directly. Instead, he leaned out the door and clapped his hands, which Malfoy had told him proudly he could do at any time to summon the house-elves. One of them appeared at once, bowing so fast its ears repeatedly flopped into its face and it had to pause to adjust them before it could focus on him. “Master is wanting something from Ipsy?”

            “Yes,” Harry said. “A pack of Exploding Snap cards, please. I’ll right wait here while you get them for me.”

            Ipsy shot him a startled glance, as though he wasn’t used to having people promise to stay in one place, and then vanished. Harry leaned his shoulder on the doorway and thought of the Mind-Healer he had worked with for the shortest amount of time, Elizabeth Arundel.

            It had nothing to do with her skill. Arundel simply blasted through her patients’ barriers, either deciding that she could help and then applying her skill to give them that help, or saying right away that she couldn’t do anything and sending them on to another Mind-Healer. Harry had gone to her in a sulky and slightly triumphant mood; he was sure that she would say she couldn’t help him and send him back to Ellison, who was his favorite.

            Arundel had come into the room, ignored Harry entirely, and started to play a wizarding chess game against herself with a chess set and pieces that Harry had never seen before; they all looked like dragons. Harry had sat and glared at her for a while, then scowled. Each time, she concentrated on the game as if she had forgotten he was there. Finally Harry gave in to his curiosity and came over to see what she was doing, and from there, they managed to get done what they needed to do, which was mostly confronting his unnecessary guilt.

            Harry didn’t think he was anywhere near as competent as Arundel, but imitating one of her tricks might work wonders.

            Ipsy returned in no time with the pack of cards, and Harry smiled at him, nodded his thanks, and stepped into the sitting room. Malfoy hunched up and buried his nose further in his book at once, though a moment before, he’d been looking out the window at the now-rainy garden with a forlorn expression.

            Harry glanced around the sitting room. Though two walls were covered with bookshelves, one with the window, and one by the large fireplace, he thought he’d have enough room to conduct his experiment. He knelt down in front of the fire and took out the Exploding Snap cards.

            “That’s a children’s game,” Malfoy said, sounding irritated, as though some ancient Malfoy ancestor had forbidden playing children’s games on Malfoy property.

            One of them probably did, Harry thought, and then fixed his attention on his hands. With a concentrated frown, he laid one card on the floor and considered it for a moment. Then he laid a card next to it and stood a third on top of that one. Then he moved over and began piling three cards into a cautious tower next to the second.

            “That’s not the way you’re supposed to play,” Malfoy said, sounding superior. “Why would you start another tower when you haven’t even finished the first one yet?”

            Harry ignored him again. When he had three cards in the third tower, he moved on to the fourth one, using five cards this time. The pattern he was using was simple—prime numbers—but he wondered how long it would take Malfoy to catch on to that.

            “Didn’t you hear me?” There was a creak as Malfoy leaned forwards in his chair. “I said, that’s not the way you’re supposed to build card towers.”

            Harry ignored him again. The five-card tower worked, but the seven-card tower toppled over and exploded in a shower of sparks. Harry didn’t pull his hand back quickly enough to avoid getting singed. He laughed, shaking his fingers, and then scooped up the cards and shuffled them again. His private rules said that you had to start all over when one of the towers collapsed.

            “Potter, are you listening to me?”

            The plaintive tone in Malfoy’s voice almost made Harry reconsider. He really wanted someone to listen to him, and he might end up storming out instead of coming over to join Harry, because he was so angry. But then Harry steeled himself and returned to the game. If this didn’t work, then he would try something else, that was all. He didn’t have Arundel’s skill, and so it was no surprise if he got something wrong, even something important.

            This time, he got to eleven before the whole thing fell apart. Harry rolled his eyes and started to gather up the cards again.

            “Why not start over with thirteen?” Malfoy’s voice said suddenly, quite close. “That’s the pattern you’re following. All of them are numbers that are divided only by one and themselves.”

            Harry turned around, making sure to keep his face calm and bland, as if he’d expected this to work all along. “Yes, that’s the pattern I’m using,” he agreed. “But I think it makes sense to start over with one each time. I want to be able to build all the way from one to forty-seven, at least, but I’ve never made it that far.”

            Malfoy snorted and snatched the cards away from him. “Then start with thirteen, you dimwit. That’s the only way that you’re ever going to reach forty-seven that I can see, with your level of skill.”

            Harry let a mildly indignant tone enter his voice. “I did better the second time than the first time. And you can’t say anything about my level of play from only seeing those two times.”

            “Yes, I can,” Malfoy said flatly. “You fumble them, and you’re barely even checking to see whether you have two identical cards.” He jumped when a sudden explosion occurred in his palm, and then went straight on as though nothing had happened. “Placing two identical cards too close together can cause them to explode more often.”

            Harry raised his eyebrows. “I never heard that.”

            “Well, it’s true,” Malfoy said, sounding smug. “And if the point is to win a game, even one as stupid and self-imposed as this one is, then you need to cheat a bit.” He squinted at the cards in his hands, then began to build a thirteen-card tower. Harry lay down next to him and watched him.

            Now and then, he puckered his lips as if to blow the tower down. Malfoy shot him a dark glance each time, and shook his head in a way that said Harry wouldn’t like what would happen if he so much as dared once. Then he would turn back to the tower and concentrate fiercely, biting his lip as each card was added.

            Harry rejoiced in the happy expression on his face, even more than the way he singed his eyebrow when his forty-seven-card tower fell over one card away from completion.

*

            Potter was staying for the night. Draco wasn’t aware when he had made the decision, only that he had, and that when he offered a room, Potter gave him a tired nod and said simply, “Thanks, that would be nice.”

            Draco gave him a small room in the western wing. Potter smiled at the window that looked out over the garden, smiled at him, and then asked him, “How do you feel now?”

            Draco blinked slowly. He’d spent a few hours thinking about something other than his parents, and he knew that had been Potter’s intent. As a matter of fact, he did feel better, and he was more inclined to trust Potter than before. Why else would he let him stay inside his house, sleeping on sheets that were fine silk and had belonged to Draco’s grandmother? It made no sense if he still hated him or thought he was an actor hired by Potter to torment him.

            But he didn’t have an answer for why he was doing this or why he had taken to Potter so suddenly, so he simply said, “I feel different.”

            Potter the infuriating just tilted his head, said, “Well, I should hope that you do, with food inside you and a friend inside the walls,” and reached out and trailed a hand down Draco’s cheek. Draco shivered. The softly moving fingers were nothing he hadn’t felt before; plenty of the people he had dated, or tried to date, had touched him in the same way. And those were people more attractive than Potter by a long shot, certainly richer, and with identities firmly established.

            But for some reason, Draco had never felt his pulse leap at such a simple touch from anyone else, never felt as though he were on the verge of shattering apart or leaping over a cliff to see if he grew wings before he hit the ground.

            Potter pulled his hand back and cleared his throat awkwardly, as if the touch had also affected him. Draco hoped so. He refused to be the only one who reacted like that.

            Potter shook his head a little, as though he had heard Draco’s thought and rejected it or wanted to recover, and said, “Good night.” Then he shut the door between them. Draco listened, and thought he heard him flopping down on the bed a moment later.

            Draco turned and went thoughtfully on his way, wondering if he should feel happy or not. He showered, ate the bowl of raspberries that he always did before bedtime with more attention to the taste than usual, and climbed into bed and shut his eyes without having found the answer to that question.

            His dreams were chaotic, full of intertwining stars and springs of light, and two figures on a broom chasing each other relentlessly across a brilliant blue sky.

*

            Breakfast had gone well, Harry thought. Malfoy had barely looked him in the eye, barely spoken—he seemed to communicate in grunts in the morning—and clutched his chair and his plate as if they were secure anchors in a wild sea, but when Harry said that he thought he should leave now, Malfoy stood hastily and said, “No!”

            Harry blinked at him, hiding his pleasure, and Malfoy, looking as if he already regretted the yelp, added with stiff formality, “Not—you may depart, of course. But it would serve my—pleasure—if you stayed and allowed me to show you more of the hospitality of the Manor.”

            Harry was happy to accept. He hadn’t thought he should leave Malfoy alone so soon, but he had thought that Malfoy might be getting tired of him and happy to see him leave.

            He was incredibly happy to stay, he thought, as they walked on the lawn outside the Manor where he had camped yesterday and watched the white peacocks stalking back and forth. Malfoy wasn’t talking at the moment, but his face had eased from some of the tight lines that had worried Harry yesterday. He walked with his hands behind his back, his shoulders as straight as though someone would be along to judge him at any moment, but Harry didn’t think those hands clutched at each other quite as hard.

            The warm, melting feeling entered his stomach again when Malfoy started talking, hesitantly, about his mother and father. It was just small sentences—about how his father had decided white peacocks were the only birds regal enough for a Malfoy, and about how his mother had loved rosebushes—but they meant far more than would whole speeches from someone else. Harry listened, and looked at Malfoy’s pale, suffering, determined face, and he wondered what the warm feeling meant.

            “I knew it!”

            Malfoy’s voice cut off with a strangled choke. Harry was angrier about that than about the interruption itself as he whirled around.

            The other Harry stood near the iron gates that permitted entrance to the Manor as if he couldn’t come any further, though Harry knew there weren’t wards there; the wards started far closer to the house itself. Malfoy had probably lost enough money that he couldn’t maintain expert magical protection for the whole estate. But the other Harry lifted balled fists and struck the gates three times as if he were being held out. His face was white with rage.

            “You are trying to betray me!” he yelled. “You’re trying to make him fall in love with you! I know Draco, and I know exactly how someone would try to trick him out of falling in love with me and considering some stranger! Why did I ever bring you here?”

            Harry felt Draco tense, and he stepped in front of him without thinking, wanting to shield him from the other Harry’s anger.

            The other Harry pounded on the gates with his fists again. His voice this time was a growl instead of a howl, but Harry could still hear the words easily, despite all the distance that separated them. “You’re trying. You’re falling in love with his pretty face and his beautiful hair and his easy manner and—and everything! But I won’t let you do it.” And then he turned away and stormed off a few steps before Apparating.

            In the silence, Harry could easily hear Malfoy say, in a low voice, “Are you trying to trick me into falling in love with you?”

            Harry turned around again. Malfoy had his arms braced on empty air as though he was going to fall over and the air would hold him up. His eyes were empty, wide, and staring, and Harry felt his heart ache as he looked into them.

            “No,” he said. “If you fall in love with me, I want it to be of your own free will and because you really think I’m the best partner for you, not because of a trick. The same way I would fall in love with you.”

            Malfoy went paler still and stood staring at him. Harry blinked again. He hadn’t realized he would add that last sentence until it was out there.

            Oh. That’s what the warm feeling in my stomach is.

            Oh.

*

            Alliandre: Thank you! As for what happened to the other Harry, Draco may know, so maybe Harry can talk to him about it.

            MewMew2: Thank you!

            celeste jacobs: Thanks so much!

            butterpie: I really like your theory; there’s just one problem with it so far. Harry hasn’t had a single thought about his own world’s Malfoy, and we’re five chapters into a thirteen-chapter story…

            Dezra: Thanks! I can’t make any promises, but I think you’ll like the ending anyway.

            weepingtenshi: I’m impressed! That’s a hard code to figure out unless you’re already familiar with it.

            isadmalfoy: You’re not wrong.

            SP777: I did have to laugh at your little conversation with Harry! As for the clue, it’s in a code, not a language. The code is called rot-13. If you Google it, you’ll find a translator. Just be sure that you really want to know the spoiler first.

            Harry is doing his best to make Malfoy relax and laugh, and I think he succeeds marvelously.
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