The Butterfly Effect

Draco was on his fifth drink of the night and getting more than a little tipsy. The wedding had been a smashing success, a guarantee with the combined efforts of Molly Weasley, Hermione and Pansy, and now all the guests had donned their party caps and were twirling away in the magically enlarged backyard of the Burrow. Draco, while happy for his friends, could not muster up the strength to dance and had parked himself off at the bar nursing firewhiskey after firewhiskey.

“Sulking my Dragon ?” came the soft, steady voice of his mother beside him.

Draco smiled almost entirely of his own will. He abhorred nicknames, had almost gotten into a punching match with Blaise over it one time, but Narcissa Malfoy was exempt from all of his general ire.

“It’s rather a lot,” he sighed, eyes fixed on Theo and Pansy twirling about on the dancefloor. It was nice to see his boyfriend happy, nice to see him out of that carefully crafted shell he hid himself in.

His mother followed his gaze, lips curving into a soft smile, “I like him.”

Draco, was absurdly pleased by this. See, he wanted to say to the world, see I know what I’m doing. But he also knew Narcissa Malfoy far too well to ignore that underlining caution in her voice.

“But?” he asked as he took a rather long swallow of his drink. He knew he would not like the answer.

“Do the two of you talk?”

“Of course we talk! What do you think we shag all day and never say a word to each other? Honestly, Mother!”

She let out a sharp burst of a laugh, that sounded like much more like a giggle. Draco would’ve never suspected his mother could make such an oddly girlish sound. She was always the height of elegance but he supposed that had changed sometime in the time he’d been gone.

“I’m glad to hear you have an active sex life, Draco, but you know full well what I meant. The war, the deaths, the fact that you are both Marked.”

No.

No, they never spoke about that. Sure, it was mentioned sometimes but brushed aside easily. The war, the Dark Lord, had no place in the life that they’d made in France. None of it existed in those sunny streets and lazy days.

Eyes narrowed, Narcissa watched her son carefully. She knew his answer without him uttering a single word.

“How are the two of you going to move forward, build a life, a family, if you’re stuck ? Draco, have you got any friends in France ? Has Theo ?”

Draco frowned. No, they did not. Well, there was the publishers and editors of his book, but they didn’t count much, did they? There were people they went out with to the clubs, but they hadn’t gone out in a few months. Maybe, a year even.

“Its not healthy Draco,” his mother continued, voice lovely and soft despite the world rattling knowledge she was imparting, “the two of you can not relay on each other for everything. There has to be other people, there has to be conversation. The two of you are living as if it’s still a war.”

Draco reeled back almost as if he’d been struck, “It’s not. We—I—”

Narcissa smiled gently, hand reaching out to touch his cheek, “When last have I seen you? Mmmm? Think about it and tell me.”

He thought about it and thought and thought some more. His mother had come for a weekend last summer and that had been it. He hadn’t seen her for Christmas, hadn’t come home since that unfortunate time just after the war. She was getting older and older but he wasn't here to see. 

No, he was in France too afraid to look at anything closely enough incase he noticed the cracks. Cracks would lead to crumbling and Draco did not think he could handle another life blowing up as astronomically as the other one had. 

“Mother—I,” he swallowed thickly almost on the verge of tears, “you know, I love you more than anything. But it’s been so hard and I—”

“I know,” she said, forgiving and kind. “I love you too, Draco. You are my heart’s joy. But you absolutely cannot sit and bleed forever. Wounds need to heal and you have to let them.”

He let those words linger, let that sit with him. His mother had blossomed into her own skin marvellously and he was so, so undeniably happy for her. He hoped he could be as knowledgeable as her one day.

“Thank you,” he said and leaned over pecking her on the cheek. “You’re brilliant. How are you so smart?”

“All of us are still struggling, I think. After your father died and you left, well I was in a bad place. Andromeda forced a Mind Healer onto me and well, let's just say she knows best. It helped. As for the rest? I suppose I have practice.”

“Practice?” Draco asked with a slight frown. He hadn't known his mother talked to anyone about such matters. 

Narcissa’s face turned a bit guarded as she studied him. Whatever she saw seemed to reassure her, because she said, “Harry comes over every other week to talk to me. I suppose, he feels as if I’d understand some such stuff better than his friends.”

“Harry?” even the sound of his name had Draco leaning forward eagerly, almost against his will. “He talks to you of the war?”

“I won’t divulge any of his secrets because those were told to me in confidence. But he hasn’t been doing well Draco. At all.”

Draco frowned. Finished off his whiskey in a single gulp and flagged down the bartender for another. He’d thought Harry was doing fantastically. There was always news about him in the papers, of his charity, of the people he shagged and dated, of the parties and the rebuilding and the new policies he played a part in. To him, it looked as if the Chosen One was living life to the fullest.

Draco wanted him to, more than anything, even if it stung that he wasn’t at Harry’s side anymore.

“Do you know what happened at the Battle?”

Shrugging, Draco accepted his drink. He’d gotten letters of course, he knew as much as they’d divulged. It had been bloody and hard. People had died. Fred Weasley had died, Lavender Brown, Marcus Flint, Dobby, Severus, Mad-Eye, Lucius, Bellatrix. Salazar, the list was quite endless.

“Harry died. We all saw it, saw him fall. He’d been struck down by the Killing Curse.”

For a second, he was tempted to jump up from his chair and track down the Golden Boy and shake him quite fiercely. Dead, his Harry, his precious Harry. His heart, a very piece of Draco’s soul, had been dead and Draco had not even felt it. He’d been swanning away in France. Merlin. His throat hurt from the effort to keep from screaming.

“I didn’t—didn’t know. Mother—I—”

“None of us begrudge you for your time in France, Draco. It was what you felt you needed to do and selfishly, I will say I’m glad you were away from all the fighting. The Dark Lord would not have taken kindly to your betrayal Draco. I would not have lived in a world where you did not exist. But, I suppose, what I’m trying to say is, stop running. Talk to Harry, talk to Theo, forgive the people who’ve hurt you and forgive yourself. Live, Draco. It's time."

With a final pet to the cheek, Narcissa Malfoy stood leaving Draco with an itch that had to be scratched. Draco had to talk to Potter, damn him to hell, but Draco simply had to talk to that git. He’d died for Merlin’s sake. He’d almost left Draco, bereft and unaware, and that was simply not on.

~~~~~

Harry knew without turning around, simply from the sound of the footsteps behind him, that Draco Malfoy had sought him out.

“Potter,” he said and his voice was quiet, soft. Tentative almost, as if there was ever a universe where Harry would turn him away or ignore him.

Harry turned around to watch him, drinking in the sight that he kept banished to a small portion of his mind. Draco, hair pale in the moonlight, cheeks flushed with a healthy pink. Breath-taking. He held a bottle of firewhiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other.

“Fancy a drink?”

He nodded, words still jumbled up in his head. Smirking a little, Draco plopped down next to him. Harry watched as he poured them both a hefty amount of liquor each. He moved like the wind, fluid and graceful, Harry had missed watching him. He could remember those terror filled days of Sixth Year when he’d trailed behind Draco, at odds with the world, begging any divinity necessary to keep him safe. It turned out he’d been the very danger, he’d prayed to keep Draco safe from. But oh, how'd he loved watching him, unashamedly and thoroughly.

“I’ve been talking with my mother,” Draco began almost conversationally once they both had drinks. “She told me some interesting things.”

“Oh?” he asked dumbly, still star struck in the presence of the blonde. He wondered what damning things Draco’s mother had told him. He did not begrudge her, Draco deserved to know all about the ricocheting darkness in his mind, the jealousy that almost struck him blind when he thought of Draco and Nott sometimes. Deserved to know that Harry wasn't whole, probably wasn't ever going to be. He'd told Narcissa all of this and more, a cathartic, more forgiving motherly figure he knew Molly Weasley could not be. He loved her, fiercely, but she did not understand the darkness of human nature as well as Narcissa did. 

“She told me that you’d died.”

Harry blinked at him. Of all the things he’d told Narcissa Malfoy, he wouldn’t have expected her to tell her son this common piece of knowledge. Most people knew. Most people didn’t care, it was just what had to be done to win the war. No harm, no fuss.

It was simply chance and unforeseen blessing that he’d managed to make it back to the world of the living.

“You-uh- you didn’t know?”

“Of course, I didn’t know Potter,” Draco snapped back, grey eyes fierce, “you dumb brainless idiot, how could you let yourself be killed?!”

He smiled then, so incredibly, undeniably happy to have Draco back. His Draco. His prickly, one of a kind, irritating Draco. Even just as this, just a smidgen of care, was enough. He could live with himself, if there was a small piece of Draco that still cared. He could let Draco go. 

“Are you- Potter are fucking smirking at me? Oh I could just—”

Harry knew then what would sort them to rights. Knew what would erase the hurt of war and return them to friends. Raising an eyebrow, he allowed his smile to widen.

“Just what, Malfoy? You want to deck me?" 

With a fierce growl, Draco’s glass went flying and then he was tackling Harry to the ground. His fist swung wildly, connecting with his face. Harry's mouth and nose exploded with pain.

“You-you! You would’ve just left me! You stupid, stupid-“

Words failing, Draco let another punch fly but Harry dodged and jabbed an elbow into Draco’s ribs. He was angry too, he was surprised to find. So angry that he could barely breathe.

“You left too!” this came out of him as a howl and he swung his own fist at Draco, connecting solidly with his jaw. “Fucking took off to France without barely a second glance. Do you know how much that hurt? Not knowing where you were, not knowing if you were okay? Alive? Voldemort was fucking gunning for you and you’d just left. No wand, no money. You reckless fucking prat!”

“I left because you didn’t want me!” this was punctuated with a sharp hair tug that left Harry seeing stars.

Growling, he caught ahold of Draco’s arms and flipped them over, so that he had the upper hand, “I was trying to protect you! From me, from the war, from fucking trapezing through the forest hunting fucking Horcruxes and wondering if everyone you loved was dead.”

“It wasn’t for you to decide! My choice, Potter! And I'd wanted you!”

They’d stopped fighting really, and were now just tugging at one another. Helplessly. Desperately.

“I hurt you,” Harry said and it was very soft and very sad and very sorry. He realised that he’d been crying, almost certainly from the time Draco had thrown that first punch. His face was wet with tears. “You don’t understand how sorry I am, Draco I wouldn’t have- please.”

Draco too seemed to be deflating and as Harry stared down at his beautiful, sad face he realised that Draco was crying as well.

“I know. Harry, I know, it was a mistake. It never ever occurred to me that you’d done it on purpose. I was being glib earlier, forcing you to apologise, I just wanted to bait you. I’m sorry. I forgive you, for all of it. I swear." 

And there it was. Forgiveness. Forgiveness given so freely, so readily that Harry’s breath caught.

He laughed, a sound so bright, so foreign that it seemed almost impossible that it was coming from him. Then inexplicably, Draco was laughing too. He slid off of Draco, down to the grass beside him and they laid there staring up at the stars, laughing until they couldn’t quite breathe.

"I forgive you too," Harry told him, heart bursting. "Not that there's anything to forgive but I feel you need to hear it." 

"I do," Draco grinned over at him, face soft and open. Harry clenched his fists together to keep from reaching out to him. "Merlin, I needed to hear it. Thank you."

They stared at each other like that, until Draco blinked and turned his gaze back towards the sky, “How’d you know I didn’t have a wand? Mother tell you?”

“No, I found it.”

Harry remembered that day vividly. The day that they’d been caught out by Greyback and his goons, thought about how he’d found Draco’s wand in their possession. That hopeless grief, that rage that had nearly drowned him. It had only settled some such months after when Narcissa’s letter had finally been able to be delivered that Draco was safe. Safe. Safe. Safe.

He told him the story now, in slow, halting words of finding the wand, being captured, Lucius covering for the three of them at the Manor then covertly asking Harry about the state of his wife and son. The last part had Draco choking back loud sobs, scarily akin to the way Narcissa had cried when he’d told her. Harry ached to hold him, to coddle him and protect him from the world but he knew first hand that pain like that had to be felt. So he simply pressed his shoulder against Draco’s and let him cry.

When Draco had stopped sobbing, Harry reached into his sleeve and unclipped the holster he’d kept there for nearly three years. Draco’s wand. The only piece of the blonde he still had. A foolish talisman he’d kept to convince himself that Draco could one day come home, come back and be his again.

But Harry could not and would not hold him back. Draco deserved to soar and Harry would not be the chains that shackled him.

“Here,” he said, soft and gentle. “I kept it safe for you.”

He took it, wonder blossoming over his face and he smiled at Harry. So warm, so true that he had to look away.

“I-thank you. Harry, you-you have no idea how much you’ve saved me. Past, present, future.”

“You’ve saved me too,” Harry said and settled back down, space now carefully maintained between them. “Go on then, tell me about your life in France. Theo, your books, all your adventures." 

So they stayed there on the slightly wet grass, far away from the partygoers, listening to each other’s tales of the world. The war, their lives after the war, everything and nothing. 

The closest Harry had come to peace since what felt like forever.

When Hermione and Ron found them much later, both of them too tipsy to walk, Hermione gave a great shriek.

“Have you two been fighting?”

Belatedly, Harry realised that his lip was split and Draco’s cheek had a wide gash on it. The fight had been easily forgotten.

“Of course we have, don’t fret yourself into a tizzy Granger,” struggling up, Draco caught Hermione up in a twirl that left her laughing helplessly. “You look absolutely divine. You’re a lucky man, Weasley.”

Ron smiled at Draco and Harry struggled up himself. He felt loopy, the bottle of firewhiskey had long since been depleted, but that hole in his chest had shrunk. It was manageable now, breathable.

He caught Hermione up as Draco let her go, “I think the beautiful bride owes me a dance. What do you say ‘Mione?”

“Careful he doesn’t break your toes,” Ron called out, grinning. Draco nodded along seriously at his side. "We tried to practice the waltz together and I came home with blue feet. Blue feet, Hermione!"

“Truly he's a terrible dancer, Granger. I wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole.”

“Oi, you two. What is it insult Harry day?”

“We should make it a national holiday, shouldn’t we Weaslebee? I expect it'll be great fun." 

And so, the four of them ambled back to the party, leaning against one another. It was startling similar to how they’d functioned at Hogwarts and Harry thought that whatever had been broken in a dankly lit bathroom with three boys beyond terrified, was slowly mending itself back together again. Better than it had ever been before.