(Be)longing

by umbrellaless22

Summary:

Part 1: Harry's away. Draco's sick. It helps to have a friend.

Part 2: Harry's first Quidditch World Cup

Notes:

Takes place within the A Forward Path universe; sent in August 2002, two years after the events of the epilogue.

This won't make a lot of sense without having read the rest of the series.

Chapter 1: Home

August 2002

 

 

Draco awoke to a pounding on the door. He jumped, not even realising that he had fallen asleep, and shoved a mountain of parchment off his chest: his notes for his qualifying examination tomorrow. Three years in, and the examinations didn’t feel any easier, but Healer Upchurch had recommended him to sit the finals this year, and he was determined not to let his mentor down. 

 

Draco blew his nose loudly as the pounding began anew. Draco groaned miserably. Jared had brought home a summer cold which had, not to exaggerate, ruined Draco’s life.

 

“Oi!” Someone shouted up the stairs. Weasley, then. Draco stumbled over a bit of toy train and cursed. The house was a disaster, he'd not eaten a proper meal in two days, and he was never going to survive this. The this being either his flu or his examination, he couldn't say which. 

 

“Just a moment!” Draco shouted back, tightening his robe and stuffing his handkerchief inside his pocket. He coughed. His face ached and he’d already maxed out on Pepper Up potions for the day. He vowed to devote his medical career to ending the common cold; this was utter horseshit. 

 

Ronald Weasley appeared around the corner, looking far too chipper. His face split into a delighted grin when he saw Draco. 

 

“You look ghastly!” he announced gleefully. “I didn’t know a nose could be that red.”

 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Thank you, Weasley. Your presence is a gift, as always.”

 

Ron only laughed and waved Draco towards the staircase. “I brought soup.”

 

“Soup?” Draco aped. 

 

“Yeah, sort of moist chunky stuff? Typically for eating, but who am I to limit you?"

 

Draco did have to admit that soup sounded just about perfect right now. His throat felt raw and his voice hoarse. Any momentary reprieve was welcome. “That’s…very good of you,” he muttered. “Thanks.”

 

Ron simply shrugged, leading the way to the kitchen. “It's from Mum, I should be clear, I'm not that generous. Her sympathy was piqued when Hermione told her about your exam and how you were all alone here due to Kreacher’s thieves’ whatsit.”

 

“Thieves’ fingers,” Draco elucidated. “It’s a flattening syndrome. He’d decided to remove some old Black family artefacts from the attic to make a hide-out for Jared. Something or other that he came across apparently issued a curse upon removal.”

 

“Eurgh,” Ron grimaced. 

 

“Quite,” Draco agreed. “It’s reversible, thankfully. Just needs another day or two in St. Mungo’s for his digits to…reinvigorate.”

 

“That’s rough, alright." Ron shuddered, clasping his own hands into fists, as though he could protect them. "And for Kreacher's sake, Hermione also wanted to pass along a scolding about not doing things for yourself, but given your sorry state, I’ll save you the lecture.”

 

“For that, you have my gratitude,” Draco told him as they reached the kitchen. Draco sank into a chair by the window. “Although you can assure her that Harry and I both feel terribly about it.”

 

“Better Kreacher than Harry!” Ron pointed out, ladeling some soup into a bowl. Draco imagined that it smelled delicious, but in reality, he could smell virtually nothing at all, given the sorry state of his sinuses. “What with the World Cup tomorrow!”

 

Draco nodded glumly. He didn’t like being reminded of the fact that Harry was playing in his first World Cup and Draco was missing it for this bloody examination. Harry had been nothing but understanding and supportive about it; it was rotten timing, that was all. 

 

Draco’s misery must have shown on his face, because Ron gave him a pitying look. “First of many,” he corrected. “Harry’s not even at the peak of his career, I'll bet!”

 

The sentiment was appreciated, but Draco couldn’t help but feel like he was actually the world’s worst boyfriend. Ron served himself, as well, and joined Draco at the table. He plopped his elbows down and dug in, and for once, Draco didn't comment on his abhorrent manners.

 

“This really is thoughtful of you, Weasley,” Draco told him, instead.

 

“Don’t mention it,” Ron said airily. 

 

“Are you making it to the Cup, at least?”

 

“Wouldn’t miss it!” Ron assured him. “Er…I mean, I would miss it, if it meant I was leaving behind a grueling medi-wizard apprenticeship, but it has happened to work out for me, timing-wise. We're all heading there tonight.”

 

“Good,” Draco nodded. He tried a spoonful of his soup. It was hot and soothing. “Glad you can watch the match, at least. My mum’s already there with the boys; they’re ecstatic, of course.”

 

“It is pretty brilliant," Ron agreed, looking like he was trying hard to stop himself from beaming. "Quidditch World Cup, absolutely wicked.”

 

Draco all but hung his head. Quidditch World Cup, indeed, and he was stuck at Number 12 with the plague. 

 

“Harry’s not angry with you,” Ron said tentatively. Draco and Ron typically steered clear of anything resembling emotions. “You know that, right?”

 

“Yes, yes,” Draco said, attempting to sound nonchalant. He was clearly less than convincing. 

 

“He’s really not!” Ron protested. “More than anything, he feels shit that you feel shit. He knows better than anyone how hard training has been on you. The long hours, how you've basically lived at the hospital these past few months. It's been a lot of time away from home and the kids, a lot of missing birthdays and Christmas. It will be better for you all when you’re independent; when you can set your own schedule and take holidays as you please. Harry knows as well as you do that this is for everyone's sanity.”

 

Draco only nodded. He tried and failed to rub away the pain in his forehead. “I know. I do know that. It's simply that I’m exhausted. Harry’s exhausted. He’s doing more than his fair share of things at home and taking care of Clark and Jared, and it is not as though his own training is a walk in the park. It’s been a long three years.”

 

“And tomorrow, it’s over," Ron reminded him.

 

Draco nodded noncommittally. “If I pass.”

 

Ron rolled his eyes. “You and Hermione, Merlin’s teeth. ‘Oh, what if I don’t pass? What if I fail and everyone thinks I’m the dullest person on the planet and I never make anything out of my life?!’” Ron put on a shrill voice and wrung his hands with gusto. “And all the while, you’re leaving the rest of us in the dust.”

 

“Forgive me for being wary of mediocrity,” Draco sniffed. Except it came out as more of a mucusy snort. Draco blanched; he was disgusting.

 

Ron huffed. “Yeah, I think that ship has sailed, Malfoy. You’ll be St. Mungo’s youngest Healer in a generation; you shaved your training down by a year. If that's not impressive, I don't know what is.”

 

Maybe Draco was just feeling sorry for himself. “It’s difficult, sometimes,” he admitted, quietly. “Being in Harry’s orbit. I love him, obviously, and I wouldn’t want our circumstances to be otherwise, but everything he touches turns to gold, you know? It can be hard to remember that my accomplishments mean anything in comparison.”

 

“Oh, welcome to my formative years,” Ron chuckled darkly. “The utter agony that is being not Harry Potter. Think about it, though. Harry’s on his own level, sure, but I started to tell myself like…Harry’s up here, yeah?” he waved a hand over his head to indicate just where Harry was. “Saviour of the wizarding world, media darling, Quidditch royalty. He’s the Chosen One. But he’s the Chosen One and he chose me, right? He chose you. That’s got to feel good, it does to me."

 

"Yes," Draco had to concede, "it does. It really does. And truly, I forget he is those things half the time, to the point where it nearly comes as a surprise when a storm of press appears around us. Things feel so normal, at home, but the World Cup has just rocketed him to a whole new level of celebrity. It's overwhelming, even for me. Let alone Clark and Jared."

 

Ron nodded sagely. "Yeah, because he's not those things, not really, not to us. To us, he's just Harry, and stuff all the noise. And honestly, Malfoy, whenever I see him, it’s all Draco this and Draco that. Your accomplishments are plenty."

 

"Hrm," Draco only half assented.

 

"Oh come off it, Harry would be the first person to tell you that all he does is play a sport. The most important sport in the world, mind you, and he’s bloody good at it, bringing joy to thousands of people, but at the end of the day, you’re the one in the trenches, making a difference, actually helping people. He’s really nauseatingly and endlessly proud of you.”

 

It was perhaps a sign of the magnitude of his illness that Draco almost started to tear up in front of Ronald-man’s-man-Weasley. Merlin, he was a mess. 

 

“Thanks, Weasley,” Draco managed. “I know I’m moping.”

 

“Nah, mate, you're fine,” Ron stood, and clapped Draco on the shoulder, clearly trying to insert a little lad mentality back into the conversation. “How about this, I’ll pack the soup away so there is more for later. There’s also some tea and whatnot in the basket there—Mum went overboard, as always—and you go get some rest. And put your books away; if you don’t know it now, you’re not going to know it tomorrow, that’s my motto! Then again, I did have to make a couple of runs at my Auror entrance exams last spring, so maybe take it with a grain of salt.”

 

Draco barked out a croaky laugh “I’ll keep that in mind.” He maneuvered his aching muscles towards the stairs. 

 

“Good luck tomorrow,” Ron said. “Not that you’ll need it. We'll be rooting for you, all of us, even George."

 

The 'you're family' was left unspoken, but the lump in Draco's throat told him that it was definitely there. 

Chapter 2: Home, Again

The exam went fine, Draco told himself firmly. The exam went fine and now he was going to watch Harry in what was left of his first ever World Cup. Whether Harry won or lost, this was a massive day for him, and Draco wasn’t going to spend it categorically dissecting his every response on the qualifying exam. Even though, honestly, some of the questions came rather out of left field and didn’t feel entirely sporting, despite Draco’s hours upon hours of relentless studying. 

 

Maybe the exam had not been fine, Draco reconsidered. Maybe it had been a bloody disaster, and he’d wasted his time and his efforts and he’d have to postpone working independently for an entire year. Failing meant being at the beck and call of Healer Upchurch, who was an incredibly patient, but equally rigorous and demanding, mentor. Healer training was no damn joke and Draco was done. He wasn’t certain he could face another year of it, not while trying his unpractised best to raise two children. Merlin, what if he’d missed all of Harry’s first ever World Cup for absolutely no reason? What if he was actually a rotten boyfriend and Harry would never forgive him for not being here? 

 

Alright, perhaps that last thought was a little dramatic, but didn’t Draco have the right to feel a little dramatic after the most gruelling examination of his entire life? He was at the tail end of his damn cold and all the soup in the world didn’t seem to quite rid him of this nagging cough and he was depleted, utterly and completely depleted. He wanted to crawl into bed with Harry wrapped around him and to sleep for a minimum of twelve hours with no interruptions, Clark and Jared be damned. 

 

Draco shook his head, trying to rid himself of this negative mood. This was Harry’s day. Draco was going to smile and applaud like the best of them, even if the Snitch wasn’t caught for a fortnight. 

 

Merlin's sagging tits, what if the match lasted a fortnight?

 

Draco approached the tangled bit of fishing net that was his Portkey, shoved around the bottom of a tree near the entrance to St. Mungo’s. With an inhale, he touched it, jerking through space and landing in a private box at the Quidditch World Cup.

 

“Draco!” Clark whooped over the roaring crowd. He was clearly in good spirits, his hair a Union Jack azure. It was the nearest thing to patriotism that Clark had every deigned to express. 

 

Draco’s mother and the various members of the Weasley and Granger family all made their hellos, to which Draco gave a very underwhelming show of enthusiasm. 

 

“We ahead, then?” Draco asked. “I’m glad I’ve not missed the whole thing, at least.” The bright Brazilian sun was a far cry from the dim quarters of the examination hall and he’d forgotten just what a ruckus a World Cup crowd could make. Hell if he didn’t have a headache coming. 

 

“For now,” Clark explained, “but it’s been neck-in-bloody-neck for hours, I can tell you.”

 

Draco squinted onto the pitch. Why on earth had he forgotten to bring a hat?

 

His eyes found Harry immediately, hovering just above a flurry of action, two Chasers going for the same Quaffle, a Bludger hurtling in their direction, a hollering of warning from the crowd. Despite Draco’s fatigue, it was hard not to be drawn into the action, red and white cloaks flapping alongside green and yellow.

 

He was blinded suddenly as a flash of purple smoke billowed up from the camera of a reporter situated just beneath the private booth. Draco coughed and waved it away. Lovely, he thought miserably. He could see the headlines now: “Trouble on the Side Lines? Malfoy Arrives Late to Potter's Wizarding World Cup!”

 

Draco briefly debated incinerating the camera, but he supposed fire at a large sporting event would not end well. 

 

“He’s seen it,” Ron whispered from nearby, thrusting a pair of Omnioculars at Draco's chest. “Look.”

 

Holding his breath, Draco found Harry, replaying the last few seconds. There was a lightning-quick glance down and to the right and then his gaze darted away. He then assessed the Brazilian seeker, trying to determine if she had seen what he had. Draco felt his pulse thunder in his chest. Come on, Harry, he thought. 

 

“Yes,” he agreed. “He’s bloody seen it. But Mota’s closer.”

 

“But looking the long way.”

 

Harry feinted, soaring in a near vertical line above the pitch, tight against his broomstick. Draco shifted his view to Mota. 

 

“Come on, come on,” Ron hissed from beside him. “Fall for it. Bloody fall for it.”

 

Mota clearly hadn’t made it to the World Cup for lack of talent, however. She seemed to survey her surroundings, Harry flying further and further away from the actual Snitch. 

 

“Shit, fuck, shit,” Ron rattled off. “It’s not panning out.”

 

Draco turned his Omnioculars back to Harry, who came out of the feint, looking determined, but not worried. Draco saw Harry’s lips shape two words:

 

“Brocklehurst, now!”

 

From below, Beater Mandy Brocklehurst gave a shrill whistle, positioning herself to swing for an oncoming Bludger. Her hit was powerful, a loud crack reverberating through the stadium. The Brazilian team was looking about as if there was some trick at play, one Chaser clinging to a Quaffle, their Keeper’s eyes darting about the pitch for some explanation. Mota, for her part, had her eyes on the prize. Oh hell, she was going to get there first, she was quickly closing the distance, but Brocklehurst’s aim was true. The Bludger arced magnificently, right into the path of the–

 

“The SNITCH,” Ron bellowed, “THE BLOODY FUCKING SNITCH!”

 

Draco’s mum put her hands over Jared’s ears. 

 

Ron was right, the Bludger rammed into the delicate Snitch, just an arm’s length out of Mota’s reach, now. The snitch careened upwards and Harry was at the ready, dropping in a dead fall from the sky, until, with a wild, triumphant yell, he rocketed upwards, hand in a fist above his head, his team all screaming his name. 

 

Ron and Clark were hollering, too, just wordless, glory-filled noise. Pride flooded Draco. He’d been sceptical of this manoeuvre when Harry had first explained it to him, silently worried that Harry had been getting ahead of himself, too delighted by the premise of the idea to notice how easily it could go wrong. And yet, Harry had stayed late at practice to go over and over this with Brocklehurst, until they felt certain it was a viable play. 

 

Draco’s heart was too big for his chest, he swore he could feel it popping his lungs with the breadth of his love and joy and admiration. Harry Potter did not do things by bloody halves. 

 

Harry’s team was crowding around him, chanting his name, clapping him on his back, accepting his accolades, a grin on his face as wide as Draco had ever seen it. Only then did Draco see Harry breaking away, shooting up from the gaggle of his team and landing ostentatiously right in front of Draco and kissing him stupid, arms tight around his shoulders, face hot, flushed, and beaming. 

 

“You did it,” Draco gasped, breaking away. “Harry, you absolute marvel, that was–that was–”

 

“Utterly phenomenal,” Ron offered. 

 

Harry tossed his head back, hair damp with sweat, grinning still as he scooped Jared up into his arms, spinning the child around, before leaning in to kiss Draco again. 

 

“Hey sweetheart,” he whispered. “How was your exam?”

 

“Stuff my exam,” Draco laughed. “Merlin’s teeth, Harry. You’re a wonder.”

 

***

 

The after party went on and on. Draco succumbed to fatigue at some point, retreating from the pub. His mum had graciously offered to take the boys so he could go out and celebrate, but by now half of Harry’s team was sloshed, and things only appeared to be ramping up. There was endless hugging and increasingly soppy commendations. It was endearing, but Draco needed sleep.  He made a quiet escape. Once home at Number 12, he showered and changed into his favourite pyjamas and was making himself some tea when Harry wandered into the kitchen.

 

“What are you doing here?” Draco asked curiously. “Thought you’d be out celebrating half the night.”

 

“And miss at night at home with you, without the kids around?” Harry said mock-suggestively. 

 

Harry leant against the counter. He looked damnably good, hair glossy, arms defined and shoulders broad from training. He had a hand casually resting in his trouser pocket. His focus was intent on Draco, his gaze so intense that for a moment Draco wondered foolishly if he’d forgotten to put on clothes after his shower. Draco felt a blush creep up his neck. 

 

“Besides,” Harry continued. “We’ve got other things to celebrate.”

 

“We do?” Draco asked, nonplussed.

 

Harry pulled a small scroll of parchment out of his pocket tied with a ribbon and tossed it at Draco, who caught it automatically. “This came for you while you were in the shower. I think you said the red ribbon means good news?”

 

It did, but Draco somehow didn’t believe it. His heart leapt madly, his fingers shaking as he fussed with the tiny knot of ribbon. His eyes clouding with hot tears of relief as he read the first first word: Congratulations. 

 

Draco looked up to see Harry watching him, expression so open and loving. "Go on," Harry said.

 

Draco glanced back down at the message from Healer Upchurch, welcoming him to the profession. He lingered on the last few lines. 

 

…Your dedication, strength of character, and keen intellect are a welcome addition to the field. Today, you join a long line of Healers; may you be a guiding beacon of light in the darkest of moments. It’s been a privilege to teach such a remarkable apprentice, and it is an honour to now call you my colleague. 

 

“Shit,” Draco cursed, swiping at tears that insisted on falling. “Sorry. It’s just–”

 

Harry looked alarmed, “Fuck, is red bad? I swore you said it was good–”

 

“It’s good,” Draco confirmed, holding out the letter for Harry to take. "It's...awfully good. I can't believe it."

 

Harry’s face shone with pride. “I never doubted you for a second.”

 

“I’m a Healer,” Draco whispered. “No caveats, no ‘Healer’s Apprentice.’”

 

“Healer Malfoy,” Harry agreed. “Pretty fucking remarkable, sweetheart.”

 

Draco laughed, a shudder of emotion moving through him. “It’s no World Cup. Sorry. This was supposed to be your day.”

 

Harry cocked his head, his expression turned inquisitive. “What do you mean?”

 

Draco shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to make today all about me. I was thinking of just waiting until tomorrow to look for my results.”

 

“No, you bloody well weren’t!” Harry exclaimed, appalled. “Respectfully, love, but fuck that. This day is every bit as much yours as mine. You think I’d have made it to the World Cup without you behind me? Who even encouraged me to go for all this in the first place?”

 

“Probably Ron,” Draco said.

 

“It was you, and you know it,” Harry replied, laughing. He leaned in, tucking Draco’s hair behind his ear, before leaning in, pulling Draco close and delivering a sparking hot kiss to Draco’s neck. “I love you, endlessly.”

 

Draco allowed himself a moment to savour Harry's touch. They'd been apart for weeks while Harry trained for the Cup. It felt so luxurious to have him home again. 

 

Harry pressed a small box into Draco’s hands. 

 

“What?” Draco started, pulling away to look up at Harry. It was small and wooden, with a tiny, delicate gold latch. Intellectually, Draco knew what it was, but his heart had not caught up with him, yet. “Harry, what is it?”

 

Harry gave a lazy smile, curling a hand around Draco’s waist and drawing him near. “Open it. I reckoned you didn’t want a big showy proposal.”

 

“Of course not,” Draco was revolted by the very suggestion. This was to be a private thing, just between them. “But I’m in my pyjamas!”

 

Harry laughed again. “For hell’s sake, Draco, open it. I love you, even in your pyjamas. Even in nothing. Especially in nothing, actually.”

 

"Shut up," Draco breathed. He looked back and forth between Harry's face and the simple, beautifully carved box. By some miracle, Draco was able to open the clasp, revealing dark velvet and a simple, flawless platinum band. It was just right. 

 

“I was hoping,” Harry said quietly, “You’d let me keep loving you for the rest of our lives. Marry me?”

 

“Are you drunk?” Draco replied, mind racing, barely able to believe that this was actually happening, in their kitchen at midnight, the kettle shrieking on the stove. 

 

“No,” Harry shook his head and laughed, silencing the kettle with his wand. “I specifically stayed sober for this, I swear.”

 

“What if you had lost the Cup?” Draco gaped. 

 

“Reckoned your saying yes would make up for it?” Harry offered, amused. 

 

Draco furrowed his brow, stunned. “What if I failed my examination?”

 

“I knew there was no chance of that.”

 

Draco looked up into Harry’s familiar, mirthful face. “This is really happening?”

 

“I mean, that’s up to you,” Harry prompted gently. “I rather think you’re supposed to say yes.”

 

Draco took a breath for what felt like the first time in full minutes. He put a hand to Harry’s lips, those green eyes he loved so much sparkling with promise. He had no doubt he would love them forever. 

 

“Yes,” he murmured, fireworks bursting in his chest. “Yes, Harry, of course I'll marry you.”

Harry slipped the band onto Draco's finger. Draco turned his face up. Harry cupped his cheek and Draco had almost forgotten how it felt to be so adored. Harry leaned in, a soft press of lips, leading into something deeper. 

 

Draco had spent the day so full of doubts. Not a single one remained. 

 

"The boys are going to lose their shit," Harry grinned. 

 

"Prepare yourself for a lecture on the heteronormative roots of monogamy and marriage," Draco retorted. "Clark won't be able to help himself."

 

Harry snorted and dipped in to kiss Draco again. 

 

"He's not normal, that kid of ours," Harry observed. 

 

"I never expected normal," Draco replied. 

 

"Oh? And what did you expect?"

 

Draco considered the question. "I don't know what I expected. I only knew what I wanted."

 

"And what was that?" 

 

"I wanted something of my own," Draco said slowly. "Something of which I could be proud, something I took for myself. I wanted you, desperately, obviously. I wanted to feel safe, for maybe the first time. I didn't know I wanted a family, but I'll not trade any of you in just yet. Somehow, I've got all the things I wanted, thanks in many cases to you. Why, what did you want?"

 

"What I've wanted from the first," Harry replied with a shrug and a bittersweet little smile. "A home."

Notes:

I think this might be my last fic in this universe. It's feeling complete.

Thanks for everything.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 6 of A Forward Path