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A Spirit In My Feet Hath Led Me	By : Chickalupe Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3251 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling, literary goddess of all things HP, owns everything you see here. I just make the pretty boys do naughty things without her permission, but the boys secretly enjoy it. I make no money from this.

Chapter List
- 1-A Spirit In My Feet Hath Led Me
- 2-Chapter Two
- 1
- 2
Title: A Spirit In My Feet Hath Led Me

Author: Chickalupe

Feedback: ooh, makes me feel all tingly� chickalupe@juno.com

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: HP/RW, eventual HP/DM

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: Up to and including OotP, but nothing beyond. Much helpful information pulled from 'Quidditch Through the Ages by Kennilworthy Whisp' (sometimes also called J. K. Rowling).

Warnings: Slash and het, graphic sex, angst, UST.

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling, literary goddess of all things HP, owns everything you see here. I just make the pretty boys do naughty things without her permission, but the boys secretly enjoy it.

Summary: Harry and Ron are happy together, but Harry sleepwalks into the wrong bed. Is Harry's subconscious taking him to where his heart wants to be? Partially inspired by the plot of the opera 'La Sonnambula'. Post-OotP, Post-Hogwarts AU. Voldie Gone, No War!

A/N: Inspired by the dual desires to see more Quidditch stories and the plot of the opera La Sonnambula, but with a slashy-Harry Potter-twist. In the opera, the somnambulist (Amina) is accepted back by her fianc� (Elvino) after her somnambulism is witnessed by the whole village, and her innocence of infidelity proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. (For more detailed plot summary, or for those who have never heard of it, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_sonnambula.) However, I feel that any partner who is that quick to jealousy (As Ron has proved capable of...) and who would spurn someone based on speculation alone (Again, Ron) perhaps doesn't deserve the prize; that being the love of the one that they rejected without cause (In this case, Harry).

P.S.- Also, just because I lifted part of the plot from an opera does NOT mean that this will be a operatic songfic. No way. Plus, I don't speak Italian.

~`*`~
�I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me--who know how?
To thy chamber window, Sweet!�

~ from The Indian Serenade By Percy Bysshe Shelley

~`*`~
Chapter One

European Quidditch Cup
Unplottable Location, Somewhere in South of France
August 16th, 2000 (1)

Though the Chudley Cannons had improved dramatically in the time since Harry and Ron had joined as Seeker and Keeper, respectively; the team was not yet good enough to participate in the European Cup this year, though they all attended together to spectate.

The Cannons may have won quite a few games thanks to Harry's prowess with the Snitch, and Ron's ability to strategize had earned him the title of Assistant Captain, but as a whole team they lacked cohesion. Team Captain Fletcher Wright(2) was a leader who truly cared about all of his players and treated them like family, but no family is without its little dramas, or even a bad seed or two.

'Speaking of bad seeds...' thought Harry, as someone shoved into the back of him, nearly knocking him into the bleacher row below. Harry whipped around in time to see a flash of angry hazel eyes and bobbed sandy-brown hair retreating in the opposite direction. 'Lisbet.'

Lisbet Clinkscales was a tiny, slim-built package full of nothing but envy and resentment. She had been Seeker for the Chudley Cannons before Harry had been recruited. Having the 'Boy-Who-Lived' on the team would bring more attendance to games, so she had been pushed into a Chaser position, having to settle for Reserve Seeker if Harry Potter was unable to play. She was stuck for two more years of her contract, and took her bitterness and frustration out on Harry with shoves, rudeness and snide comments.

Of course, Harry had known none of this at first. Ron and he had jokingly made a pact that if they managed to kill off Voldemort together, they would both try out to be professional Quidditch players. When they found themselves in the unlikely position of actually having achieved said wizard's defeat, they figured that they had nothing to lose. Several teams made them offers, but when the scroll from the Cannons came Ron had been ecstatic. Harry found he just couldn't say 'no' to the pleading eyes of his best friend, and so both had signed on for a season together. It had come as a nasty shock that one of the senior players on the team had such unprovoked animosity towards him.

Despite Lisbet's bruised ego and persistently bad attitude, Harry found himself generally pretty happy. Playing together side by side with his best mate seemed to Harry to be a fine way to spend his days. And, just two weeks ago, something had happened to make his happiness even greater.

After tiptoeing around their feelings for months, Ron had gathered up his courage and requested Harry's hand in marriage. They had gotten engaged at Harry's birthday celebration on July 31st, in front of all the Weasleys and the newly married Hermione and Neville. Molly Weasley had been crying so many 'tears of joy' that they had almost had to sedate her.

Harry felt great overall. Here he sat at the European Cup, holding the hand of his best friend-turned-fianc�, and he hadn't a care in the world; beyond thinking about who they would play next season and a not-entirely-unfounded worry that his future mother-in-law might 'accidentally' dose him with a fertility potion to get her first grandchild. He had a career he liked and was good at, an extended group of family and friends who cared about him, and someone who loved him and was wonderful to snog. Above all, no one was trying to kill him.

As if feeling his thoughts, Ron looked down at him and winked, giving Harry's hand (the one wearing the traditional gold engagement band) a soft squeeze. Harry grinned at him in what he was positive was a sappy way.

'Yes,' thought Harry, as he turned back to watch the rest of the Opening Ceremonies. 'My life is perfect.'

It was only later that he realized that this was the moment he'd effectively jinxed himself.

~`*`~

When Draco Malfoy had gotten his life back after the war --the Manor, the Malfoy vaults, his reputation-- he had quite surprised even himself by deciding that the last thing he wanted to do was to live off of his restored fortune in an eternal life of leisure. He had rejected politics- it didn't tend to end well for Malfoys. He had no desire to go into teaching, he'd had enough school forever. He was left pondering the direction in which he wanted to go.

Then, he'd heard the rumour about Potty and the Weasel getting accepted into the Chudley Cannons. The old childhood rivalry he thought he'd outgrown reared its horn�d head and prodded him sharply in the backside.

He'd be damned if Potter got to play Quidditch for a living when he couldn't, even if it was for a crap team like the Cannons.

He had pushed himself harder than he could ever remember from his school days, determined to finally be the best. Many hours of blood, sweat, and practice later, Draco found himself blowing the competition away at the tryouts. His first instinct had been to go for the Montrose Magpies, as they were the most successful in the league, and he definitely deserved the best. However, upon reflection, he had chosen to sign with the Falmouth Falcons. Their grey robes with white falcon-heads were the exact shades to compliment his eyes and hair! The ordinary black robes of the Magpies could not compete; black having the tendency to make him looked washed out, Draco felt.

The fact that the Falcons were notorious for being rule breakers, and had a long history of hiring Slytherins may have played some small part.

Somewhere over the past year, though, Draco had realized: it wasn't about beating Potter anymore. It wasn't about appearances or busting a few heads or even the adoring public (and they were adoring, weren't they?) cheering in the stands.

It was about the love of the game, pure and simple. The joy of flight, of spotting the Snitch, of playing. For the first time in his life, he felt truly satisfied. He helped his team to victory over the League and onward, only because it made him happy.

And so, it was with no small amount of pride that Draco followed his teammates out onto the field with his broom over his shoulder, and waved to the stadium of people about to watch them compete in the European Quidditch Cup. As the crowd roared with delight, Draco could have sworn he saw a pair of familiar faces huddled together just a row or two up; one topped with messy black hair, one topped with red.

~`*`~

�Malfoy?!� Ron's voice was a bellow, only slightly audible among the yells and cheers all around them in the bleachers.

�Malfoy,� Harry squeaked, and then cleared his throat. �Ahem. Yes, Ron, that is Draco Malfoy. Apparently.� 'And all grown up,' Harry mused silently, and then wondered where that strange idea had come from.

�I don't understand,� Ron seemed bewildered as they leaned in closer to talk. �How... How? How did this-- could this happen? Bloody Hell, if he was in the same Quidditch League as us, how could we not have known?�

Harry thought for a bit. �Well, did we ever actually go up against the Falcons?�

Ron, who understood the complicated League hierarchy better than Harry, reluctantly shook his head. �No. Remember the match with Puddlemere? After Tristan almost got suspended for hitting that Chaser with his bat?�

�That was an accident!� came Tristan's voice from a few seats down the bench.

�Sorry, Tris,� they chorused in his direction.

�Anyway,� Ron continued. �If we'd won against Puddlemere United, we would have played the Wigtown Wanderers, and then the Falmouth Falcons. Bloody hell!�

�Oh,� said Harry, not really able to think of a response. �Malfoy's done well for himself, then.� 'Looking well in those Quidditch robes, too.' Again, the thought came without bidding.

�Bugger,� Ron grumbled. �Bet the spoiled git bought his way onto the team again.�

Silence came from Harry.

�And how am I s'posed to be able to cheer for England, eh? Knowing Malfoy's on the bloody team, � Ron asked belligerently, after a moment's pause.

�Then cheer for the French, the Quiberon Quafflepunchers,� Harry suggested in his most reasonable and patient tone. Harry was sick of fighting, and he'd hoped that they were over all of this immature hatred after the War. Malfoy had turned out to not be a completely terrible bloke, after all. He certainly wasn't evil incarnate, as Ron seemed to feel.

�Not cheer for England? Are you mad?� The sharp gasp in Ron's voice showed how appalled he was at such a suggestion.

Harry manfully resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his intended husband. He couldn't totally suppress the sigh that came out, though; and wasn't quite sure who that sigh would be for- Ron, himself, or Draco.

~`*`~

As Draco mounted his broom to ride a lap of the pitch with the rest of his team, he could have sworn he heard someone bellow his name. Of course, several someones might be yelling his name in this crowd; he seemed to have garnered quite a fan base. People who had previously looked down their noses at the 'Son Of Death Eaters', now wanted to be his friends with a startling alacrity-- once they saw his skill on the pitch. Just in the past year, Witches and Wizards alike had thrown themselves at him, begging for a night in his bed. Something he would have wished for, once.

It was rather disillusioning.

Still, he was almost certain that he knew that voice; was quite familiar with its angry bellow, in fact... Which meant Potter wouldn't be far away. He might have fun seeing Potter again-- Draco hadn't hated him even before they had graduated, and the last few months of maturation and hard work had cured him of his desire for oneupmanship. Still, teasing old Scarhead was a favorite pastime not to be missed.

Draco smirked to himself as he pushed off the ground and into the air.

~`*`~

FOOTNOTES: (1) In Quidditch Through the Ages (pp. 39-40) it mentions that the Quidditch World Cup was founded in 1473, and is held every four years-- while the European Cup was founded in 1652 and is held every three years. Counting the years up by four, we can see that the World Cup should have been in 1993; though we know for a fact that Harry attended before his Fourth Year in 1994*. From this it is safe to conclude that the World Cup was put off for one year for some reason. I theorize that the World Cup, which should mathematically have fallen in both the years 1941 and 1945, might possibly have been delayed one of those years much as the Muggle Olympics were because of World War Two--something which was widespread enough to effect both Wizards and Muggles alike. Another possible theory for this discrepancy could be Dumbledore's epic defeat of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald, occurring in that same year, 1945 (Sorcerer's Stone pp. 102-103). This seems too deliberate for coincidence. Either way, following this train of logic, the European Cup that was also slated to have taken place in 1945 would have been pushed back for the same reason. Therefore, I have chosen to make the year 2000 the first European Quidditch Cup after Harry and Ron graduate, rather than 1999.

*{{In a footnote of a footnote, let me just state unequivocally that on p. 102 in Goblet of Fire , Ludo Bagman's claim of it being the �four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup� is complete and utter crap. Obviously, the man is delusional. For there to be that many World Cups in 521 years, it would have to have been held roughly every year and three months rather than every four years. Bollocks to that; it is totally contradictory to all we know. In 1994, it would have been the one hundred and thirty-first World Cup!}}

(2) I chose this name mostly for self-amusement. In Q.T.t.A. (p. 14) Bowman Wright of Godric's Hollow is said to have invented the Golden Snitch in the mid-1300's. Not inconceivable that one of his descendants is a Quidditch player, right? A Bowman was a soldier who shot the bow and arrow; the Fletcher was the one who made the arrows. Sadly, it's this kind of thing that my brain finds hilarious.

~`*`~
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A Spirit In My Feet Hath Led Me