Fic: The Shoemaker and the Elves (1/2)

[icmezzo_archive]

Title: The Shoemaker and the Elves
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Summary: Draco makes shoes. Or, well, at least he would have done, except they started making themselves, and really, that was quite odd, if he thought about it.
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): None.
Epilogue compliant? Not in the least.
Word Count: ~14.5k
Author's Note: This piece was written for hdwriter in the 7th and final hd_holidays fest. Thanks to the mods for the countless hours they spent bringing this fest to life year after year.

Thanks also to my prereaders, beta, and Brit-picker sapphirescribe,twilightmundi, fr333bird, and arcadianmaggie. You are a talented group of women and I'd be a complete mess without you.

And now, I hope you enjoy this rendition of a little holiday tale, which was first spun long ago by the timeless Brothers Grimm...

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

---

The Shoemaker and the Elves

Draco gazed down at his hands.

The soft light of his candle couldn't hide how much they'd changed. His fingers were calloused now, and thinner.

Just like the rest of him.

He'd have sighed, but he wasn't even sure he could afford that these days.

Picking up his knife, he went back to work, where he would stay hunched over his table until the wee hours caused his lids to droop and left him nodding over his leather. That's when he would finally put down his tools and return his supplies—dwindling, ever dwindling—to their rightful places before preparing for bed at long last.

Just prior to slipping beneath his sheets, he checked the wards around his home, a habit designed more to ensure the protection of his precious few belongings than to guarantee his own safety. No, those days were past, at least, those dark times when he had to fear for his very life.

The period shortly after the war had been a special sort of torment; he remembered those days as a sea of exiles and sentences, reparations and damages, acute threats and chronic loss, all coming in anguishing waves that smashed against him and his, relentlessly crashing and swirling around him, trying to drown him.

It would have been easier if he'd let them;he knows that. Others had. But he never would, ever. He was a Malfoy. To others, that may have no longer meant anything, but to him, it was enough to pull him each day from his bed. Beyond that? Well, survival was costly, and Draco had few Knuts left to spare.

He never would get beyond mere survival, either, as long as the customers refused to come, ignoring his elegant craftsmanship in favour of long-held grudges. And those few who dared step through the door of his small shop rarely paid much more than the worth of the raw materials, haggling with him, knowing the desperation behind his long-practised poise.

One day, maybe, they'd finally forgive him. Seven hells, he'd settle for forgetting if it meant he'd have enough Galleons to fill his stomach with a bit more supper each night.

Trying to ignore the vague hollowness in his belly, Draco whispered a warming spell over his blankets as he climbed beneath them, followed by a quick Nox, and with a flick of his wrist, he was plunged into the night.

Magic, at least, was still free, and for that, he was thankful.

~oOo~

Draco watched from the corner of his eye, cautiously optimistic as Hannah Abbott lifted the elegant boot to the light, examining the stitching he'd laboured over a few evenings prior. It was perfect; he knew it.

She sniffed at it anyway, setting it back down and heading for the shop door.

His heart sank. He needed to sell something.

The bell along the top of the door rang out merrily as she opened it to leave, its cheeriness in direct contrast to Draco's sinking mood.

"Unless..." Hannah hesitated from the doorway and looked back at the shoe.

Draco cringed; he knew what was coming. Still, he adopted a patient smile. "May I help you?"

"Well, it's just that the craftsmanship isn't what I would like for a boot of that price."

"Is that so?" Draco trained his eyes on the ground lest he be tempted to illustrate her obvious inability to judge quality by pointing at the haphazard hemline of her robes. She stepped fully back into his shop. A good sign.

"It is. I also question the origin of the leather—how can I be certain that the beast was ethically raised?"

Ahh yes, the morality jibe. Nothing new there. Customers were all the same; clearly the ex-Death Eater would continue always in the inhumane paths he'd been guided along as a youth.

"I assure you, Ms. Abbott, that the dragons were free range—"

"Dragon?" she sniffed.

Draco resisted the urge to hand her a handkerchief. "Yes. Peruvian Vipertooth."

Gods, the woman couldn't even recognize that it was dragon leather, much less the finest Peruvian Vipertooth leather he'd been able to find. She didn't even deserve the shoes. Nonetheless, Draco was hungry; he'd had naught but weak tea that morning and unless he wanted to gnaw on scraps of Vipertooth leather for lunch, he'd be negotiating with Hannah.

She eyed him suspiciously. "Those boots are purple. Vipertooths aren't purple."

"No," he agreed. "They're not. Thankfully, we wizards have use of a very special tool called magic—"

"Don't get smart with me, Mr. Malfoy."

"Of course. Apologies, Ms. Abbott—"

"I'll give you twenty Galleons," she said.

Draco nearly choked. It wasn't enough even to pay for the leather. "And for the left shoe?"

She scowled and turned once more towards the door.

"Wait, wait, wait," Draco said. "I'll give them to you for thirty." It was too little; it'd barely keep him alive at such a price—a single Galleon over the cost of the raw materials—but he could tell he'd never get a Sickle over that amount from Hannah.

She held his gaze for a moment. "I'll think about it," she finally said, her tone cold, and Draco knew she wouldn't.

The bell tinkled mirthfully when the door shut firmly behind her.

Returning to his workbench, Draco only barely resisted the urge to drop his head to his hands. He had to keep going.

Somehow.

~oOo~

Three days later his leather ran out.

It was late, long after sunset, in those quiet hours when even his busy hands couldn't keep his thoughts at bay as they spun fear and dark troubles into maelstroms in his mind.

He cut the last of his leather to fashion one final pair of shoes; nothing fancy, this time. He didn't even have enough remaining to make a nice pair of witches' heeled boots, but he could eke out a last pair of men's Oxfords. Perfectly crafted, as always, and classic, but plain. He simply hadn't the supplies left to do anything more.

Once he'd finished cutting the leather—rich Ukranian Ironbelly, this time—he glanced at the clock on the wall, deciding to save the rest of the work, all of the stitching and stretching and forming of the shoes, for the next day. He'd need something to do to keep his mind off his empty stomach.

Setting aside his leather and putting away his tools, Draco gazed around his one-room workshop, dimly lit by his flickering candle. Sparsely furnished, perhaps, and extremely utilitarian, but it was all his, tools acquired for hard-won Sickles or fashioned by his own hands through a good deal of trial and error. He'd lacked all outside assistance, of course, and, but for a week of lessons with a master cobbler that he'd scraped together the funds to pay for, he was self-taught in his trade. That just meant there was no one to teach him bad habits or laziness, he'd long ago decided, and he'd never have to answer to anyone but himself.

That knowledge was deeply comforting, as was the thought of his exhausted head finally resting against his pillow. Satisfied that everything was in place, he checked the wards one last time. The small shopfront, his little workshop, and the back rooms where he lived, all were secure.

After climbing into bed and spelling out the lights, he tucked his wand beneath his pillow, his arm below his head, and his blankets up to his chin.

"Well, goodnight then," he whispered to the darkness, just before shutting his eyes and falling into his customary deep slumber.

~oOo~

Draco stared across the room at his workbench, brows furrowed as he recognized the extent of his own madness. For what else could it be?

"Draco Malfoy, you've officially gone 'round the bend," he told himself.

Because really. He'd gone to bed with the leather lying just there on the bench, as he always did, but never before had he risen to a pair of completed shoes in its place.

Perhaps it was amnesia and he'd forgotten the length of an entire day. Yes, some mysterious day settled firmly between Tuesday and Wednesday, when he fashioned the pair of men's shoes sitting before him.

Or, had he actually made them in his sleep? He'd certainly told himself often enough that such a thing was possible as his fingers toiled through his more tedious tasks.

Maybe he'd finished them the night before and simply forgotten in his exhaustion. Yes, that had to be the case, he assured himself, though in truth, he remembered no such thing.

"But then," he said into the cool morning air, "why, exactly, would I have stitched them thusly?" He sipped his tea at that, ignoring the familiar scald on his tongue in favour of examining more closely the Oxfords before him.

At first the work had seemed appropriately his own—cap toed, sleek, and refined. Classic. The quality, too, was not to be missed, easily up to his highest of standards. In picking one up, though, the difference became clear. Quarter, not semi-brogue adorned that end cap, and that was not Draco's custom at all.

He set the shoe down, staring at the reunited pair, foreign footwear intent on intruding into his careful routine. He was not sure what to make of them at all. Indeed, he seemed unable to wrest his eyes away from the dark leather, shaped, evidently, by careful fingers that were not his own.

Well, fine then. His own hands were tired, so let the mystery shoes allow them rest, if they were so determined. Picking up the pair, he carried them to the shopfront, placing them in the window in view of various passersby. Perhaps someone was foolish enough to prefer quarter-brogue, he smirked. Philistines, after all, the lot of them.

Once he had placed them artfully, he stood back to admire the display before shaking his head at his inexplicable morning. "Tea," he thought to himself. "I need more tea."

~oOo~

Draco reckoned it was just past noon when the lightning bolt appeared pressed against the glass of his shop's display front.

Worse, the body sporting it actually entered his shop soon after.

"Potter," Draco sneered. Harry may have been a potential customer but on a day that had begun so very strangely, there was far too much comfort to be found in the familiar.

"Malfoy," Potter nodded, pushing up his glasses. "Can I try on these shoes?" He lifted up one of the Oxfords.

Draco was immediately suspicious. No one came by his shop to buy shoes. To mock him, definitely. To point and jeer, and even to spit on him occasionally, yes. And if they left with footwear despite themselves, well, it was only because even they couldn't deny the style and quality of his work. And because he was generally desperate enough to take nearly any sum. In fact, the only person who ever came to him with the intent to purchase was—

"McGonagall sent me. She said yours were the best and that they stay shiny and never need replacing. And I hate shopping.".

"Potions for the lustre, Potter, and of course my shoes are the best. Obviously. And they'll be in fine shape as long as you decide to wear them." He wished he could stop himself, really. It'd be better if he sold shoes that wore out after a while so people would have to return for new ones. He cost himself customers every time he cast the Foreverlast spell into the soles of his handiwork.

When had he become so insistent on always doing the right thing? It was probably a reaction to every insinuation to the contrary, he supposed.

Potter cleared his throat.

Draco gestured to the small padded bench along the wall and summoned his measuring device. Even if it were only stupid Potter, it wouldn't due to turn away a sale. He didn't even have a scrap of leather left to his name. "Fine, Potter. Have a seat."

Potter sat. To his credit, he looked only mildly uncomfortable.

"Were you planning on taking off your shoes sometime today?"

"Oh. Er, right." Potter slipped his socked feet from his shoes, wriggling his toes.

Raising an eyebrow as Potter's third toe poked through a hole in his sock, Draco had to admit there were at least no offensive odours for him to delicately Vanish, and that little toe did appear adequately groomed. Potter still chuckled awkwardly. "Heh. You don't happen to sell socks too, do you?"

"Not quite. But here, a simple mending spell should help." Draco knelt down by Potter's foot, lifting it and touching his wand to the worn sock. It mended within a few seconds, stitching itself back together cleanly and tightly at Draco's command.

Harry blinked; his eyelashes were long and thick. "Thanks. I'd never have thought of that, and I'm always getting holes."

"Your feet are too big for your socks; that'd be why."

Potter's feet were quite long, narrow with a classic arch and form. Draco'd noticed that right away. Some men had all the luck.

"Socks come in different sizes?" Potter looked amused. "Gods, I suppose I really should let Hermione drag me shopping."

"Why don't you send your house elves?" Merlin, if Draco didn't miss having elves, letting them scurry about with the tiresome and endless line of chores, cooking and cleaning and mending and dusting. And then there was his elf from when he was a boy, Trilly, who'd raised him up, doing all those tasks he imagined a mother might have done, had she cared to do so. Trilly'd had kind—if extraordinarily buggy—eyes. Wise too, if he remembered correctly. The Malfoys had lost their elves after the War, though. Sold to the highest bidder, he supposed.

Without waiting for an answer, Draco pulled out his measuring device, resting it against his thigh and gesturing for Potter's foot. Potter gingerly set his heel atop the metal tool, Draco adjusting its placement slightly, while noting the pleasant warmth emanating from the socked foot.

He glanced up at Potter, who was chewing on his lip. Potter met his gaze.

Something stirred in Draco, then, an unexpected little twist in his belly, a curl of heat released deep within him. Startled, Draco looked away quickly. Had he really experienced such a strange reaction to Potter of all men?

Looking back up at Harry, he found Potter blinking his green eyes back at him and Draco was suddenly intensely aware of the intimacy of being on his knees before Potter, cradling his foot just so. He struggled to swallow, something thick caught in his throat. Nerves threatened to emerge after a rather extended hibernation.

Draco dropped Potter's foot as though it were on fire. Jumping to his feet, he walked quickly to the back of his shop, dabbing his handkerchief against his forehead. "I'll, uh, I'll be right back," he choked out as he flung open the door that led into his workshop.

His heart pounded. What was that? It was just Potter. He'd measured the feet of a hundred customers, but he'd never had that sort of reaction like that before with any other witch or wizard. Potter was his former enemy; was that the cause? Was the heat in his cheeks due to the humiliation of kneeling at the feet of his rival?

Draco had to admit it was not. He had endless enemies from his past, many worse than an idiot school-aged Potter, and Potter hadn't treated him with anything but respect since, regardless of Draco's initial baiting. In fact, Potter hadn't been anything but perfectly polite in years—or at least, more than most were, anyway.

Salazar, what was wrong with him? It was just Potter.

Just. Potter.

As though it had ever been just Potter.

He let out a slow breath and wandered over to his sink, splashing his face with water. Looking in the small mirror above his sink, he towelled his face dry.

"Get a hold of yourself, yeah?" he said, as his own reflection blinked back at him. Now, best to get back before Potter left and he lost his best chance for a sale in a week, even if Potter wanted the strange pair that had unexpectedly greeted Draco that morning.

Clearing his throat, he returned to the shopfront. "Apologies, Potter, I just had to—"

Potter was gone.

Well done, Draco. He'd bloody well fucked that up, hadn't he? And he'd needed that sale...

But then, wait a moment. Just there, by his creaky old register on the counter lay a messy pile of coins and a small sheet of parchment. Draco picked it up.

I tried on the shoes. They fit great. They were so comfortable I didn't want to take them off. I guess that's silly, but there seemed to be no point in it! I had to go, so I hope you don't mind that I just left the money for you. Let me know if it isn't enough. I'm not the best at maths.

Sincerely,

Harry (Potter)

Draco read it again and turned it over in his hand. On the back appeared to be last week's grocery list, if "sale on sausages" listed between "those good biscuits I like" and "non-expired milk" was any indication.

He set the note on the counter. There was no way those shoes had fit Potter. He'd cut the leather to make them in the standard pre-fit size, knowing they'd require precise magical expansion to be the right fit for any wizard, not to mention Potter's especially long toes.

Draco stared at the pile of Galleons. Potter certainly was bad at maths. He'd left too much, a full 10% more than Draco's asking price.

Galleons, though—Gods but Galleons were good, even if they came to him via idiot Potter. Scooping the coins up, he put most in his previously empty register, feeling the weight on his shoulders lighten slightly at the sound of them spilling into the drawer. He tucked the remainder into his coin purse. He'd find Potter and give him back the extra 10%, especially since he'd walked out with what had to be terribly ill-fitting shoes. Or perhaps he could owl the money back to Potter, if he could find one to rent for a few hours. Then he'd visit the apothecary for some supplies, as he desperately needed more lilac pollen for his Steady Treading potion. New leather, he'd need that too, of course. Perhaps some Ridgeback. Oh, and food! Of course, food. Maybe enough to make a hearty stew instead of his usual potatoes in weak broth. If he was lucky, maybe he'd even have a few coins left over for a pint at some pub in town.

He warmed just thinking of it. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd indulged at all. It'd probably been well longer than a year, maybe even two. The possibility of it now brought a small smile to his lips.

Cheers, Potter, he thought.

~oOo~

It was late when Draco arrived back at his home, but the time it had taken him to find the leather he'd sought had been worth it. He'd got the Ridgeback, a flawless piece (and Draco refused to work with substandard materials), as well as a small length of Irontail, a remnant just large enough for a pair of simple boy's loafers, but as such, he'd got the stretch of it for a good price. He'd had to forgo the hoped for pint, but Draco could do without. He'd gone this long, hadn't he?

Besides, that warmth in his belly had been making itself known all day, every time he thought about the events of the afternoon, really...and, well, the tendrils of heat had gradually seemed to become somewhat dangerous as they worked their way through him, curling up into his lungs and warming his heart and all the way out into his fingers. In combination with a pint after so long without, well, it seemed safer to refrain, especially if he could spend the coins instead on additional leather and other supplies.

That had to come first, he'd reminded himself as he'd gazed at the door to the pub he'd passed on his way home that evening, imagining wizards smiling and laughing inside as they imbibed. He swore he'd even heard Potter's laughter ring out as he'd stood there.

Well, if he'd woken up loony, why should he go to bed any differently? He shook his head at himself and hurried past the entrance, lest he tempt himself any further with idealised imaginings of what and whom he'd find inside.

By the time he'd finally made it back home, he was chilled to the bone and more tired still, so after tucking into his evening meal—even he'd been unable to deny himself a second helping of that!—he found time to cut his new leather for the shoes he'd make the next day. Despite the tea at his side, which he'd kept under a warming charm, he was simply too tired to progress any further. Setting aside the pieces for the boy's loafers and then the others, which would eventually become a smooth, shiny pair of trendy women's ankle boots with an only slightly impractical heel, he once again rose from his bench to check the wards and settle into his bed for the night.

It had been a most mysterious day, Draco decided, what with the shoes that had formed on their own and then disappeared almost as quickly, thanks to the bewildering and unsettling encounter with the one and only Harry Potter. Thankfully, he was certain that his night would be decidedly less peculiar, so he could get some much needed sleep. Draco's nights, after all, hadn't been exciting in years.

~oOo~

No matter how long Draco stared at his workbench, the sight before him refused to sort itself.

Two pairs of shoes.

Two. Pairs. Of shoes.

He squinted. He angled his head. Rubbed his eyes. Closed them and counted to three before looking yet again. Even whispered a hesitant Finite Incantatem. Yet there they remained, bathed in the morning light streaming from his little workroom window: one pair of little loafers and one pair of ankle length boots.

Gone was the leather, of course. But there the shoes sat. Completely finished, and shaped as perfectly as if Draco had made them himself.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? He hadn't.

Yet there they were.

Two. Pairs. Of Shoes.

Well, he supposed it did no good to leave them there on his workbench, did it? He took them to the front display of his shop and arranged them so the sunlight shone on the beautiful leather, highlighting the quality and hinting at the comfort found within.

He'd planned the heels to be a quarter inch shorter than the ones he'd found there on the women's boots. And as for the boy's shoes, well, they were a shade narrower than his standard design, but maybe someone would still want them regardless. He'd have to price them modestly, he supposed, but he hoped to at least recover the cost of the materials.

He was just taking a seat at his register to work out the prices when the bell chimed above his shop door.

"Malfoy?"

Draco nearly dropped his quill. "Potter?" He felt the heat creep up to his cheeks. It was early; the shops weren't open yet, and here was Potter, walking right into his shop regardless. Merlin, if Potter wanted to return those shoes he'd bought, Draco wasn't going to stand for it, not after Potter had worn them all day! He frowned, wishing suddenly that he hadn't spent so much of the money already.

"Look, Potter, I'll resize them for you, but you can't return them after you've worn them—"

"What? No, that's not why I'm here," Potter interrupted. A bit of his hair stuck up in the air, the opposite direction from the rest. Draco wanted to straighten it, but he shoved his hands in his pockets instead. "I really like the shoes." Harry looked down at his feet and smiled. "They're the most comfortable shoes I've ever owned, that's for sure."

"Well then why—Oh, right, because of the, ah, little error in arithmetic? Potter, you really are quite terrible at maths. Look, I meant to owl you the balance yesterday but wasn't able to make it to the Owlery until after closing. I can give it to you now, though." Draco opened his register to retrieve the extra coins he'd set aside to send to Potter.

"Wait, Malfoy, no. I hoped it was enough is all. I meant to leave you extra, hoped I did. Because I liked them so much, you know? Why, is that not on? I didn't realize, if that offended you, I just meant to..." Harry shrugged. "I just liked them, okay?"

Draco stared at him. No one left him tips. No one. Potter was obviously having him on. "Seven hells, Potter, if you're fucking with me—"

Potter squawked and spun around, and only then did Draco spot a small, wide eyed, purple and white haired boy standing behind Harry. Potter quickly put his hands over the boy's ears and glared at Malfoy.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "How was I to know you'd had a wizardlet, Potter?" Staring at the child, he realised the boy had to be at least five or six years old. Potter hadn't wasted any time, had he? Gods, why was it suddenly such a struggle to breathe, anyway?

Potter shook his head and removed his hands from the boy's head. "Malfoy, this is my godson, Teddy. He needs some good shoes."

Oh. A godson, then. Draco tried to ignore the fact that air rushed into his lungs easily again. Well, fine. He supposed Potter's godson was welcome in his shop, especially if it meant another customer. Merlin knew he couldn't take one of those for granted, even if the customer was a strange child with odd hair and a slightly runny nose.

"I want those!" The boy pointed at the display in the front window.

Oh for Salazar's sake, Draco thought as he followed the direction of the boy's finger. Of course he'd want the new pair, the pair that had just appeared from thin air—well, not exactly from thin air, but from his choice cuts of leather anyway. And of course they'd fit his feet perfectly, even though Draco's eyes told him it was impossible. And of course Potter again wanted to pay more than Draco asked for them.

His life simply could not get any stranger, Draco thought as he took a seat at his workbench after Potter had left.

And he supposed that was precisely why one Ms. Hermione Granger-Weasley opened the door to his shop not thirty seconds later, searching for a nice elegant ankle boot with a slightly impractical heel.

~oOo~

Three pieces of leather Draco left out that night, and three pairs of shoes he found the next morning: a sandal, a slingback with buckles, and one sharp pair of Oxfords.

Again, they disappeared as quickly as they'd come; each pair was purchased by noon that same day.

"Potter sent me," Longbottom explained with a shrug as he entered.

"Harry said they'd be best for my mum's aching toes," announced the Weaslette upon entering, as though challenging Draco to disagree.

"The wrackspurts," said Luna as she examined the slingback. "They prefer buckles." She paused and studied Draco, seeing him in that way of hers that made him feel naked, before finally catching his eye and smiling lightly. "He didn't say out loud, of course, but Harry wanted to ask me to tell you 'hello.' His own wrackspurts were quite atwitter, you see. Perhaps he could use a buckled shoe himself. Do make some, Draco Malfoy, for the sake of Harry's head?"

Draco'd been caught off guard by the wrackspurts, of course, but who wouldn't have been?

"I—um, all right," he'd agreed, as she grinned widely and left the shop, leaving coins in his hand that her own had kept warm.

Loony, he thought, quite a lot later that night, just as he finished laying out his newly purchased and cut leather. Eyeing the perfectly shiny silver buckle he set atop the gorgeous Swedish Short-snout, he shook his head. Bonkers, the both of us. Completely gone mad.

~oOo~

Harry came again the next day, bringing with him the first snowfall of the season. The cold wind slammed the shop door shut behind him as he slipped and slid across Draco's polished wooden floors.

After recovering his balance, Potter peeled off his gloves and pulled his woollen hat from his head, revealing a thatch of hair that stuck up in angles Draco didn't know existed. Static cling, Draco guessed. And general follicular mismanagement, of course.

Potter blinked at him. "Um, hey, Malfoy."

He sounded almost friendly and Draco wasn't sure what to do with that. Frankly, the little pinch he felt when Potter walked in was unnerving enough. He adopted a cool, professional demeanour; that was generally a safe choice. "May I help you?" Draco flicked a quick drying spell at the puddle of wet snow melting at Potter's feet and then watched as Harry loosened the scarf around his neck.

"Shoes," Potter said, stepping forward and slipping again on the smooth flooring. He grasped at the closest display and attempted to remain upright as his feet slid this way and that. "Well, boots, more precisely," he added.

Such drama, Draco thought, flicking another charm at Harry's feet to stop the flailing. Did the git not believe in adequate tread?

Harry looked grateful. "Er, thanks."

Draco nodded once, wondering when such gracelessness had become endearing. He bit back a smile.

"Right, well, boots. With lots of traction for the winter. And warm, too. My feet are always cold." Potter looked down at the worn footwear he currently sported.

"Probably because they're soaking wet."

Potter looked up and shrugged. "Probably." He hesitated. "I'd have worn the pair I got here, but I was afraid I'd ruin them in this weather."

"You don't have to justify your choice of footwear to me, Potter," Draco said, even though many of Potter's fashion choices were questionable at best. Salazar, if Draco had funds like Potter had, there's no way he'd wear such ill-fitting trousers. "Regardless, a simple waterproofing charm will work wonders. Well, lucky for you, I do have boots. The tread should suit you well in the coming months. Keep you from landing your arse in a snow bank. Have a seat and I'll bring them to you."

Draco pulled a nice pair of men's boots from a nearby display. He had made them himself a few weeks back, prior to the time when his shoes had started making themselves.

But Potter's face fell slightly when he saw them, though he quickly recovered and tried to hide the flash of disappointment.

Draco glanced at the boots. "Let me guess, you were hoping for ones with bu—"

"Do you have any with buckles, by any chance?" Potter interrupted. "Luna said I'd want buckles."

Of course she had. "Sure, Potter. A buckle to help that ridiculous head of yours."

"Will it help my head too? Luna said buying buckled boots would be good for my heart." Potter frowned. "Not that I think there's anything wrong with it, but best not to take any chances, right?"

Well, Draco couldn't exactly disagree, as he'd adopted the same as his own motto when he had decided that staying alive was important to him. He went to retrieve the silver buckled pair that had appeared on his workbench that morning. "Better?" he asked, holding them out for Potter to inspect. "Merlin knows I wouldn't want to be responsible for breaking Potter's heart."

Harry's eyes shot up to meet Draco's, who immediately flushed a deep red. "That's not what I meant—"

Potter grinned. "It's fine, Malfoy. Those boots look great. Comfortable. And if you made them, I'm sure they're very stylish."

Draco carefully regarded Potter for hints that Harry was mocking him. He had so little to spend on clothing these days, but he'd always taken pride in his attire, dressing as smartly—if no longer quite so elegantly—and using a fair number of complicated spells and potions to keep the threads tight and weaves unworn. He sometimes wondered if he was actually fooling anyone. But Potter seemed genuine. "Yes, well, I try," Draco finally replied. "Now, take off those horrid trainers and let's try these on, shall we?"

Potter bent to unfasten his laces and slip off the old shoes. His socks were soaked, grey and sad looking, and clung to his feet.

"Gods, Potter," Draco muttered, aiming another spell at Harry's toes. A split second later, the cotton was once again fluffy, white and nicely dried.

"The frequency with which you are levelling spells at my feet is slightly alarming," Potter said, his eyes crinkling into a smile.

"Yes, well, I must say, your blocking skills have got decidedly slower in your old age," Draco pointed out.

"I wasn't trying to—Hey! We're the same age. I'm not old. Gods, we're not yet nearing thirty!"

Draco just smiled as he knelt and helped Potter slip his now warm, dry foot into the new boot. He felt a bit warm again himself.

"Don't you need to measure to get the right size?" Potter asked, and Draco found himself studying Harry's mouth, noting how his lips were quite chapped. Draco wondered if he should offer him a bit of salve.

No, he decided, Potter was a paying customer, not some mate over for tea. Turning back to the boots, Draco focused on the task at hand. "They'll fit," Draco assured him. "Somehow, they always fit," he mumbled. Even Potter's long feet.

Sure enough, the boot slipped right on.

Potter reached for the buckle at the same time as Draco did, their fingers brushing. Potter's hands were still reddened and cold from the outdoors. Draco nudged Potter's away. "I've got it," he said. It was his job after all, wasn't it?

The other boot was next, and Potter merely watched as Draco slipped it over his heel and buckled it after. Draco sat back then as Potter stood and took a few steps. Potter looked pleased with himself. "They look all right, don't they?" His smile broadened. "I love them," Harry said, glancing at Draco. "It's like walking on clouds. Or kittens. Not that I walk on kittens. Though I did step on McGonagall once by accident." He snorted. "I think she wanted to give me detention but I was twenty-two by then."

Draco couldn't help but smile slightly in response. "No kittens in the boots, Potter. I assure you. But there is a special lining coated in a potion I developed last year. Helps soften the impact of each step and makes everything inside seem especially soft."

Potter nodded. "It's great. You should apply for a patent."

"I could, but of course they wouldn't give it to me," Draco said firmly, unwilling to let Harry's optimism cloud his judgement regarding the heavy politics surrounding the ministry patent office. "So I'll keep it as my secret instead, thank you. Now, back to the boots—they're fully waterproofed, of course, as well as snow, slush, puddle, lake, and fountain-proofed. They're made of certified free range, hand-cut Ironbelly, and the laces were grown sustainably north of York and sung to in the light of the quarter moon, as is their preference. I've also maximized the Steady Treading coating to minimize slippage, and—"

"I'll take them," Potter said, admiring the look in Draco's mirror.

Draco had to admit they looked good on Potter, the leather tight around his muscular calves. Draco swallowed. Took excellent craftsmanship to make Potter look that good, he told himself.

Harry caught Draco's eyes in the mirror; Draco found he had trouble looking away.

Something buzzed then, though, and Potter grimaced as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vibrating box. "Sorry, Malfoy, I have to run."

"Of course." Draco forced a polite smile. "Did you want the boots? I can have them owled to you."

"I'll just wear them," he said, flustered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handful of Galleons. "You didn't say how much..."

He handed the coins to Draco, glanced at the pile and then added a second handful. "Is that enough?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed, and clearly in a rush.

Draco, meanwhile, nearly choked. "More than," he nearly squeaked. "Here, wait." He tried to hand Potter back at least a portion of the exorbitant sum. "Wouldn't want you to overpay again."

"Keep it," Potter told him, heading for the door. "I want you to. I really do have to go, though," he added as he wrapped his scarf around his neck and pulled his hat over his head.

I'm not your charity case, Draco thought as he watched Potter's chaotic attempt at redressing himself.

Potter reached for the door but stopped short before opening it. Turning back, he looked at Draco. "Bye, Malfoy. Thanks." He flashed a quick grin and was gone in a bluster of wind and snow and December.

Draco was left nodding, staring dumbly at the spot where Harry'd stood moments before, wondering whether he'd rather thank or clobber this grown up Harry Potter, or, thinking of those chapped lips, maybe do something else entirely.

Continue to part 2 of 2.