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

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Read part 1.

No matter how many pieces of leather Draco left on his workbench each night, he returned to find shoes to match in the morning.

And the same number of customers always came calling that very day.

Magic, thought Draco. Of a type he couldn't conjure with a wand or potion or charm.

He was leaving seven, eight, even nine sets of Irontail or Ridgeback or Green belly on his table each night, for with every sale he could purchase even more supplies.

And his hands! Salazar, his fingers! They were no longer destroyed from stitching and stretching, no longer raw and cracked, full of scrapes and cuts and needle pricks and callouses. Well, he still had the callouses, but that was all right. He'd discovered through the years that a man required a few, or it was evidence that his life required more effort.

His stomach, too, was becoming less concave, as were his cheeks, thanks to heartier meals. He stuffed himself some days, filling the hollowness that his belly had known for years.

Somehow, though, he'd still never made it for that pint. Unnecessary extravagance, that. Who knew when the shoes would stop appearing or the customers would stop buying and return to disregarding him and his wares?

Nerves weren't the reason that kept him from going in, not at all.

Which was why, later that evening, cold in the frigid winter winds, he stood outside the little pub even longer than normal, with what certainly felt like a small surplus of coins heavy in his pocket.

He very nearly went in that time. Almost.

But, who knew what the future held for him? And if the next morning brought more mysterious shoes and subsequent sales, well, maybe tomorrow would be a better day to get that pint. More responsible, that was for certain. And so, instead of stepping into the warmth emanating from behind that heavy wooden door into that cheery little pub with the windowsills decorated with evergreen and candles and rich velvet bows, he went home to his small empty rooms and his cold, hard workbench, and toiled long into the night, cutting the leather in hopes that magic, again, would find him as he slept.

~oOo~

Potter came by for a third pair of shoes not four days later.

He left with them, of course, and left Draco with far too many Galleons and toothy smiles in the process. Draco return owled a few of the former to Potter, but could think of no way to send back the latter.

The fourth time Potter came by, Draco was confused; that morning he'd woken to find plenty of shoes, but they'd all been for witches. Most had already been purchased by the group of Ravenclaw women intent on finding new heels for their various holiday gatherings. In fact, by the time Potter walked in, there was only one pair left. And, Draco thought, glancing at the sparkly pump with the stiletto heel and satin bow, unless Harry had a bit of an unconventional personal life, Potter'd be unlikely to want them.

As it turned out, Potter wasn't after shoes at all, but a drink at the pub, with Draco, instead. He'd asked, his green eyes bright and hopeful.

For the first time, Potter had to leave Draco's shop disappointed. Because Draco couldn't. He couldn't! Not when it was this close to the holidays and customers kept coming and he was using every spare moment cutting all the leather he could. Needed to take advantage of extra shoppers and the Christmas cheer or holiday psychosis that had them offering Draco Galleon after Galleon.

After Christmas maybe he'd find time fora pint—with Potter or without—he told himself as Harry left, his cheeks slightly pink and his jaw tense after Draco had turned him down without explanation.

Because how could Draco explain that it was mostly because he was scared? Scared to change a thing when every morning he woke to a mysterious gift, and that was not something he took lightly. It wasn't as though good fortune fell into his lap often. He couldn't explain the shoes but he was afraid they'd stop appearing if he altered even the tiniest thing, and a drink with Potter—that wasn't insignificant in the least. Even more, Draco feared Potter himself, because Harry was dangerous, making him feel certain things, and hope for others, all the while customer after customer entered his shop because of Potter's recommendations.

~oOo~

After the eleventh day, Draco opened his pantry to find it stocked. He wasn't sure how it happened, a natural cumulation of supplies added daily, he supposed.

On the twelfth day, Draco realised he'd saved enough to order supplies in bulk, saving further Galleons.

On the thirteenth, Draco had fully restocked his potions supplies and had enough potions brewing to replenish his medicine cabinet, as well as ensure plenty of tinctures and brews for his work.

The fourteenth, Draco went shopping. Not for shoe leathers or laces, but for clothes for himself: a new jumper to replace his threadbare one and two pairs of trousers. He added some nice, thick socks as well, and several pairs of pants—the former offering comfort against the winter chill. As for the latter, well, a pair of nicely fitting underpants would give any man a right boost.

People generally ignored him as he shopped, busy with their own errands, but he received one tentative smile from a Hufflepuff teen who'd purchased girl's flats from him a few days prior. It surprised him, and it took him a moment to return the sentiment, but he did, smiling genuinely back at the girl.

Rather Hufflepuff of him, he decided.

As he walked home, he passed the pub yet again. He didn't go in, but on the fifteenth day, he owled Potter.

~oOo~

Standing in a pile of grey slush outside of the pub, Draco was seemingly unable to take the final few steps to reach the door. He had half a mind to turn around and return home.

Potter would be inside, waiting for him.

But then...

Home. Home was better. He could work, after all. Should work. And Potter would get over it. Merlin knew why he'd asked Draco anyway.

Draco turned to leave when a gust of wind came up behind him, pushing him forward instead, causing him to step in a large slushy puddle. Bugger.

He sighed. This was not going well. He really should just go.

"Malfoy!"

Draco stopped short. Double bugger.

"Malfoy," Harry said again, coming up behind him, his breaths puffs of white in the cold air. "Sorry I'm a few minutes late. Ready to go in? I could use a pint." He flashed a goofy sort of smile at Draco.

Draco nodded dumbly and let Harry lead him forwards. "Right. Sure. A pint."

Harry held the heavy wooden door open for him and Draco could smell the spice and hops emerging from within. So too, the low buzz of chatter reached his ears, a myriad of voices, overlapping words and phrases forming a conversation he wasn't yet a part of. But maybe he could be.

He looked at Potter, who was breathing into his hands, warming them.

Maybe...

Draco stepped inside and looked around. An older wizard behind the bar filled glasses with a practised ease. Another poured a round of fresh drinks to a group of young friends. One balding wizard with a hooked nose sat alone at the bar, chattering with either himself or...well, no, definitely to himself; there really was no one else around.

The wooden floors were worn beneath his feet and the tables had lost a great deal of their shine, but it was friendly enough. Candles flickered, bathing the room with a soft light, and yes, there was a bit of greenery even, tucked into corners and ornamented with sprigs of berries or red velvet bows.

He relaxed his shoulders and nodded at Potter, who began to lead them through the maze of patrons. He could do this. It was comfortable. Not too bad at all. He might even be able to fit in here. Yes, surely he could come back again instead of waiting out in the cold and wondering. Everyone was minding their own business, not paying him any mind or—

"Bloody Death Eater scum."

Draco felt, rather than heard, the room go silent.

His eyes flicked around the room as Harry jostled to step in front of him. "Who said that?" Potter hissed, immediately on the offensive.

"Well look at that; Harry Potter, defending the Malfoy spawn," a red-faced wizard spat, his eyes as glassy as the empty pint glasses sitting before him. "Like the pretty little Death Eater was worth savin'. Never thought I'd see the day."

Potter growled and reached for his wand, but Draco grabbed his coat and held him back. "Don't. It's not worth it," Draco warned. "I'll just go."

Wresting himself free from Draco's grasp, Potter stepped forwards until he reached the man's side. "Were you perfect at fifteen, then?" Harry asked. "In the middle of a fucking war, would you have left your family? You think you—"

"Potter, enough!" Draco said, but Harry simply ignored him in favour of his ranting. Draco tried again to get Harry to stop, but failing once more, he turned and headed briskly for the door. He didn't want to cause trouble; he'd just end up in the papers and lose the small stream of business that had started coming his way. No, he had to go. It just wasn't worth it.

The bartender's nod was surprisingly kind but Draco barely saw it as he headed outside and back into the cold December night.

Who was he trying to fool anyway? He retied his scarf as he walked quickly around the corner of the next street and, after taking a moment to compose himself under the silent stars, he Apparated back home where he belonged, ignoring the faint crunch of snow and gravel that indicated Harry might have been coming after him.

~oOo~

The knock sounded just as Draco's wards warned him that someone was at his front door.

"Not now, Potter," Draco called from his work area where he sat with his tea and a stretch of leather, trying to to decide whether he trusted his shaking hands with sharp tools.

"C'mon, please?" Potter asked anyway.

"We're closed. Please come back in the morning."

Potter simply knocked again. "Please, Draco."

Draco stiffened at Potter's use of his name. "Why?" Draco went to the door, not to open it, but because yelling from across the room was entirely uncivilized.

"Because it's cold out?"

"You didn't listen to me. People like that aren't worth the trouble," Draco said firmly.

"You mean you're not worth it."

"No, I mean they aren't, Potter. It only makes it worse, arguing. Gives them what they want. Salazar, I don't need you to try to protect me either. I'm perfectly capable of handling matters on my own," Draco insisted.

And he was. He didn't need Potter or Potter's Galleons when the git overpaid each time. Didn't need Potter trying to buy him a drink. And most of all, he didn't need Potter's pity.

"Will you please open the door?" Potter asked quietly.

Sighing, Draco gave in and unlocked the bolt. "Fine. What do you want?"

"Can I come in?" Harry simply asked with a half smile as he ignored every one of Draco's blatant social cues to the contrary.

Draco studied him for a moment before finally nodding and stepping back so Potter could push past.

"Potter, look; I appreciate that you keep sending people here to buy shoes, recommending my work. That's great, really. Can't thank you enough." Draco swallowed. "But you've done enough now. And you can't fix the world by giving me too large a tip or by telling off some hateful prick in a pub."

Potter just ignored him, though, instead meandering through various shoe displays before finally heading towards the door that led into Draco's workshop. "May I?" Potter asked.

Draco huffed in frustration. Potter was maddening. "Would it matter if I said no?"

"Probably not," Potter grinned, then pushed open the door.

Following a few steps behind, Draco watched Harry take in the various tools, machines, and other shoe-making paraphernalia. Potter ran his finger over the edge of the worn wooden workbench before finally wandering over to the far door that opened into Draco's tiny living space. Luckily, Draco'd shut that particular door earlier, and Harry could keep his prying eyes to himself. "No, that's my house and I'll thank you not to enter."

Potter frowned. "Then where will we get glasses?" he asked, reaching into his bag and pulling out a bottle of Blishen's Firewhiskey.

"Oh for Merlin's sake." Shaking his head, Draco moved to block the door.

"Look, it's not a fresh pint at the pub, but I thought we could still sit and have a drink."

"It's not...Potter, just—No. Okay?

"I don't care if it's messy, if that's the problem," Potter insisted, reaching for the doorknob.

"Bloody hell. I'm not messy!" Draco denied hotly, batting Harry's hand away. "It's small, okay? I don't have—there's nowhere to—Look, I don't have company often, so I don't need—"

"You know I grew up in a cupboard, right?"

"Look, why don't you just go—Wait. That was true?" Draco had always assumed that was just rumour, Potter's tragic beginnings. He hesitated. Was he actually considering letting Potter in?

"Yeah. Nice, huh? So, c'mon then. You have glasses? If not we'll just have to pass the bottle back and forth, and I haven't done that since I was seventeen and hiding from Ron's mum."

"I have glasses, Potter, but—"

"Gods, Malfoy, you're as stubborn as ever."

"Me?" Draco squawked. "You're the one who—"

"Look, are we going to go in or not?"

Bloody hell, were Potter's eyes always so green? Folding his arms across his chest, Draco frowned. The door was shut solidly behind him and he liked it that way. But here Potter was, trying to see inside anyway.

Oh, fuck it all. In for a Knut...

"Fine."

Potter's eyes lit up and he reached for the doorknob at Draco's side. Draco found himself unable to breathe when he realised how close Potter was as a result, Potter's hand right at his waist.

Everything seemed to be moving far more slowly than normal, the air heavy. "Wait...Potter..."

Potter met, and held, his gaze and Draco's knees felt a bit funny. He tried to clear his throat but couldn't quite even manage that.

"You know what?" Potter asked then, breaking the silence and quirking his lips into a smile. "Let's just have a drink, okay?" He lifted the whisky bottle.

"Right. Yeah. Okay," Draco found himself agreeing. Turning and opening the door and showing Potter in, he let out a deep breath. "It's not..."

"Not the Manor? Thank Merlin for that!" Harry said, looking around. "It's great. Brilliant."

Cringing, Draco surveyed the barren room with his sparse furnishings and absent décor. "You can have the chair, if you want. I'll just get some glasses." He took Potter's coat and gestured for him to take the seat at the small table. He headed to the cabinet above his sink, hoping that he could find two matching little glasses. When he turned back to the table, though, Harry wasn't there. Instead, he found Potter sitting on the floor, leaning up against the wall closest to Draco's Floo, a merry fire already sparking and crackling in the hearth.

Gods, he didn't even have a proper place to seat Potter. Well, it was Potter's fault to begin with, coming over unannounced. Handing the glasses to Harry, Draco went to find two small cushions, and after giving the better one to Harry, he sat down nearby, accepting gratefully the glass handed to him in return.

"Cheers." Potter lifted his own.

"Yeah, cheers." Draco took a tentative sip while trying to appear confident. The spicy drink heated his throat and all the way down to his stomach. He tried not to cough; he'd forgotten that bit. Licking his lips lightly, he glanced up from the glass in his hands to find Potter watching him. His stomach grew warmer still as he looked back down, even though he hadn't yet had a second sip.

He couldn't think of a thing to say.

Potter...he lived in a different world than the one Draco knew; he always had. They had nothing in common—well, except that Harry was wearing the buckled boots he'd got from Draco, but Draco hardly wanted to discuss shoes. He glanced quickly at Harry, who was frowning slightly. Gods, Potter was probably regretting this already.

The silence wore on. Fuck it all, Draco had to say something.

"You can use Mister's Most Shining Elixir for your buckles—" he started saying, just as Harry opened his own mouth.

"Er, so I'm a poof."

"Keeps the metal nice and shin—wait, what?" Draco looked from Potter's boots to his face, which was slightly flushed.

"A poof. You think my buckles aren't shiny?"

"I think there are a few fingerprints, yes."

"Well, where would I—."

"Owl order it from Canada. They have the best elixirs, I've found. It's all the tundra. If you order on Tuesdays, they'll waive the Owl post fees."

"Thanks for the tip. Shiny is good."

"Yes, well, it's fine either way."

"Which? The fingerprints or the..."

"The..." Draco hesitated. "Because I am too."

"Fingerprinted?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Harry went back to frowning and Draco studied the floor in between sips.

"You can call me Draco."

"You can call me Harry," Harry echoed.

"I rather prefer Speccy Git, if you don't mind."

"You don't have glasses," Harry teased.

"For you, you—"

"Poof?" Harry's green eyes danced.

Draco faltered. "You keep saying that."

"Emphasis, Draco," Potter said. "Wouldn't want you to forget."

"Thanks, Harry. I'll keep that in mind."

They smiled shyly at one another and Draco watched as Harry took a sip of the Firewhiskey, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. The low light made the shadows dance as he did so.

"I'll just... shall I?" Harry gestured vaguely at Draco.

Draco wasn't sure what Harry meant, but decided he was all right with finding out, so he nodded. Crawling towards him rather ungracefully, Harry came to a stop at his side.

He proceeded to refill Draco's glass.

And really, Draco's heart should not have sunk quite as much as it did. Merlin, what had he thought Harry had been about to do?

He couldn't take his eyes off Harry's lips, parted slightly as he poured. They weren't chapped any longer. That was good, though Draco could've recommended a good salve for that, too, though the best ones weren't from Canada, but New Zealand, thanks to the plethora of kangaroo tear extract. The Owl post costs would have been exorbitant, though, considering New Zealand didn't ship free on Tuesdays, except in August, and who needed lip balm in August anyway? Not him. And not Harry either, apparently, as his lips were no longer chapped at all, even in mid December. They were, however, still parted, and moist, a bit, from the drink, and Draco found that the effect was alarmingly attractive.

With Harry sitting so close, Draco's staring must have been obvious. He took another sip of his drink for something to do. He felt warm all over now and it didn't help that Harry's eyes were dark behind his glasses. The side of his foot rested against Potter's boot. It was—

"You could get contact lenses, too, from Canada," Draco offered, deciding it was better to speak instead of thinking about the press of Potter's foot. Besides, contact lenses were originally Muggle before wizards had improved on them, so he figured Harry might appreciate the suggestion.

"I like my glasses," Harry said, and Draco had to admit that he sort of did too. But then, he'd not seen Harry without his glasses, had he? So how did he know for sure? "May I?" he asked, "Your glasses?"

"Okay," Harry agreed, his voice low, his eyes following Draco's hands as he gently lifted them from Harry's face.

Studying Potter's features, Draco decided he looked quite vulnerable without the glasses. Very different, all nose and thick eyebrows. He didn't know if he liked it.

"Well?" Harry asked, reaching for the glasses, his hand uncertain until it landed on Draco's wrist and then slowly traced up along Draco's fingers until he reached the thick frames, which he retrieved from Draco's grip and placed back on his face.

Draco shrugged and found all of the things he actually thought regarding Harry's face refused to be said. "Contacts make your eyes tired anyway. You wouldn't want them."

"So you like my glasses?" Potter suggested with a smirk, elbowing Draco.

"Yes," Draco admitted grudgingly. "But you have serious issues with fingerprints. And very hard elbows."

"Part and parcel of being a poof."

Draco snorted inelegantly. "I hadn't forgotten."

The hour was late, and Draco was tired. But this drink with Potter, it wasn't bad. He wasn't sure he wanted it to end. His Firewhisky was gone though, and more would be a bad idea. Draco hadn't had as much as a Butterbeer in ages, and he already was feeling mellow and warm and slightly...not crisp. Decidedly uncrispy. Certainly not less than adequately crisped. Draco blinked his heavy eyelids. Well, not quite right, anyway.

Judging by the way Potter'd sort of half melted against the wall, he likely felt the same.

Harry chose that moment to set his own empty glass aside and stretch out until he lay curled on Draco's rug before the fire, the cushion tucked under his head. It was terribly undignified, and a bit forward, really, as Draco hadn't exactly invited Harry to have a nap on his floor. But then, Potter looked surprisingly comfortable, and Draco rather enjoyed the whole not being alone situation.

So he joined Potter on the floor. It was horribly unrefined; he hadn't done such a thing since he was a child, but it seemed to make sense just then, somehow.

"I can go," Potter said. "If you want." He studied Draco. "It's been a long day, and I guess I was tired. I mean, I probably shouldn't Apparate, but I can—"

Draco's words came out slowly. He must've been more tired than he originally realised. "It's fine. But, the floor, don't get—"

"Fingerprints?"

"Drool," Draco corrected. "Not on the floor, if you don't mind."

"I don't drool," Potter protested.

"Sure you do. You're a poof," he said, mostly because he'd found teasing Potter earned him smiles in return.

"Is that so? All poofs drool? Even you then?"

"Except me. I personally have no issues with excess saliva."

"Yeah? Use it all, do you?" Potter was grinning at him, Draco could tell, despite his face being half smushed into the cushion. Even that look was attractive on Potter.

"That's quite enough from you," Draco insisted. Where did Potter get his manners? Mocking one's host was not on.

But Potter just looked at him through sleepy eyes, reached over and touched his finger to Draco's face—causing Draco's breath to catch in his throat. Running the finger over the side of Draco's jaw before dropping his hand heavily against the floor, Potter mumbled, " 'M'tired," before scooting slightly closer and pulling off his glasses, setting them side.

Harry's breathing soon evened out and his features relaxed to become unguarded as he dozed. Draco realised that he'd been mistaken; Harry Potter was beautiful without glasses as well.

Draco cast a warming spell over them both before setting aside his wand. He supposed he wasn't exactly averse to a short nap.

~oOo~

When Draco next opened his eyes, it was either five minutes or a few hours later; he couldn't quite tell. But it was definitely still the middle of the night, and Harry Potter was even more definitely in the room with him.

"Sorry, I guess I fell asleep," Harry said rather needlessly, as he sat up and stretched. "I should go."

"All right," Draco said, gathering their glasses and sending them to the kitchen with a flick of his wand. He wasn't sure he wanted Potter to go, but sleeping on the floor was unlikely to do their backs any favours and as for the bed, he wasn't sure that was a good idea. Besides, Harry had only mentioned having a drink; hadn't said a word about after. And for all his talk of being a poof, Harry hadn't indicated he'd any particular interest in Draco. As for himself, Draco wasn't at all sure what he wanted, except, perhaps, to continue to sell shoes. He'd grown accustomed to eating sufficiently and didn't care to return to evenings spent with his stomach growling.

Retrieving Harry's coat and handing it to him, Draco watched him button it up. "Thanks for the drink, Potter."

"Harry."

"Right, Harry." Draco smiled tentatively as he led Harry to the door that led back out through the workroom. "Through here—"

Draco stopped short when he opened the door though, because in the workroom, there were—no, it couldn't be, it was impossible, but there they were anyway—

House elves.

The Malfoy house elves.

Six of them, right there around his workbench. Pinky, Trinket, Trilly, and Puck. Even Hatcher and little Batsy.

And they were...

Hard at work. Making shoes.

Draco stared as Trilly, ancient now, with her little hands that were best suited for stroking his hair as she sang him lullabies, struggled to cut thick leather. The others, labouring around her, sewed and stitched and stretched and bound in a flurry of soles and needles and laces.

"I—" Draco had no idea what to say. He glanced at Potter who was frowning.

Turning to him, Potter's eyes were cold. "I thought you'd changed."

"What?" Draco looked at him aghast. "Wait! I didn't ask—" The elves startled at the sound, first noticing Draco and Harry, and proceeded to start shrieking while running around the workbench, occasionally crashing into each other.

Harry frowned. "Right, Malfoy."

"But I didn't know! I had no idea—"

"Oh, sure, you just woke up every morning and thought shoes were just magically appearing on your workbench, did you?"

"Well, I..." Draco shrugged helplessly. "Yes?"

Harry shook his head. "I'll be going now."

Draco watched as Harry disappeared with a crack.

The elves Apparated away soon after, one by one, in a series of cracks, leaving behind no further explanation as to why they'd been there in the first place.

"Trilly?" Draco said softly as the last elf vanished. He'd so loved her comforting words when he was younger. It was embarrassing the way he yearned for them again now.

And Harry, why had he been so angry anyway, to see the Malfoy elves making a few shoes? He was a right prick assuming whatever he assumed about Draco, without even letting him explain, even if Draco couldn't exactly explain it all himself.

Draco looked around his deserted workroom. It was a mess now, filled with scattered bits of half-finished shoes, upended stools, spilled ink, torn leather, and, possibly, one slightly broken heart.

~oOo~

Draco couldn't sleep after that.

Tossing and turning in his bed, he eventually gave up, rose before dawn and returned to his workbench. He had no new shoes ready to put on display the next morning, so he set about finishing those that the house elves had started. By the time the sun rose, Draco's fingers had fallen into their usual rhythm of stitching, and he'd finished one pair completely and had started in on a second.

The work was therapeutic, the careful placement of each stitch. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed it, the feel of the raw material in his hands, the art and craftsmanship that went into each shoe, and the knowledge that his labouring would bring some witch or wizard a good deal of lasting comfort and style. Over the past fortnight he'd identified a few slight changes the house elves tended to make to his designs, and even adopted some of them himself, though he'd never prefer open lacing on men's dress shoes, never!

As he worked, Draco's mind wandered to the sudden appearance of the house elves—he refused to think of the idiot Potter—and he really couldn't fathom why they'd suddenly shown up after seven, nearly eight years had passed. Eventually, he decided they must have still been Malfoy elves, somehow still tied to the Malfoy name, no matter what the Ministry had done with them after the war.

He wondered if the elves knew that Lucius was gone and only came at night because they were afraid of Draco himself now, thinking Draco had followed in his father's footsteps even when it came to his cruelty. Or maybe the house elves didn't know that he was the lone remaining Malfoy and had only come at night fearing Lucius would once again claim them.

They were only house elves, but Draco knew what it was like to live under his father's thumb, especially through the years where the Dark Lord had squeezed every ounce of decency from Lucius' heart. And these house elves, they'd been abused, badly, and they'd seen their companions die beside them whenever the Dark Lord felt the need to assert his power over the weak and defenceless.

Draco had worked hard to regain his own independence since then, never again wanting to be a slave to another's whims. As for the elves, a part of him wished the same for them. It was crazy to think it—every pureblood he knew would think him mad, and he wasn't so sure they were entirely wrong—but perhaps he should grant the Malfoy elves the same freedom. Draco didn't need them, really, not in his tiny house, and certainly not all six of them. He wasn't even sure he should be responsible for feeding extra mouths. He'd dreamed at times of one day of acquiring a single elf to help around the house, but not these elves who only came to him because they were bound to Lucius' shadow.

Merlin, he certainly had enjoyed their help with the shoes—his fingers had healed and his stomach had been filled because of their aid—but part of him missed actually making the shoes himself.

That was a thought he'd never dreamed he'd have, yet, there it was.

Freeing the Malfoy elves would be easy enough. A bit of clothing as inconsequential as a tired old sock or a threadbare shirt would do. He didn't have much but even he could find something like that in his small wardrobe.

But then, perhaps instead—and truly, he'd officially gone 'round the bend now—well, perhaps he'd give them their freedom in a manner more befitting how much they'd helped him. Yes, he could do that. There'd be no worn socks for the Malfoy elves; instead, he'd make them each a little pair of shoes.

~oOo~

Christmas, Draco decided as he stitched by candlelight at his little wooden table. He could finish them by Christmas, the six little pairs of shoes. If he hurried, they'd be ready just in time, and he'd give them to the elves then, in little packages. Perhaps he could even find bits of ribbon for bows. Trilly had always liked bows.

It wouldn't be easy, he had only a few days, and he'd left the workshop and most of his tools to the house elves who continued to appear night after night as long as Draco stayed out of the way.

He could at least try.

Draco hadn't known whether the house elves would come back again at all, but he'd left cut leather for them in the hopes that they would. And return they had, night after night. Draco kept out of the workshop, didn't enter during the long night hours. Instead, during the day, between handling customers, he designed special shoes for peculiar house elf feet.

While Potter never returned, other customers did, and he suspected those customers sent others because business was steady throughout the day. People came with small smiles and Galleons and left happy with their purchases. The Falmouth Falcons even contacted him about possibly making new boots for their Quidditch players come the new year, though nothing was yet put on parchment.

And more than one former customer smiled at him outside of his shop, too, which Draco enjoyed, even if he assumed it meant they were under a little too much holiday stress, smiling at a former Death Eater in the middle of broad daylight like that.

Regardless, Draco found himself far too busy to accomplish much during the day, so he worked on the special shoes long into the night.

His actions weren't entirely selfless, he knew. Because keeping busy helped him from thinking of...kept him from imagining...well, kept his mind off anything but shoes and house elves and maybe Christmas, because Christmas was everywhere by that time of year.

No matter how tired he was when he finally went to bed, however, the moment Draco closed his eyes, he saw Potter's green eyes and stupid smile, and that hurt worse than any accidental needle poke caused by exhausted eyes. So he worked in his kitchen until his cramped hands would work no more, until about the time when the sun threatened to appear in the east. Only then would he give in and go to bed and try not to think about things he'd dared to hope for. He thought of them anyway though—those few days when hoping seemed reasonable and life seemed fair and his future seemed as though it could be even a little bit better than good.

~oOo~

When Draco went to bed on Christmas Eve, he left, on his workbench, six little boxes tied with six tiny ribbons, each with a small name card attached.

The next morning, when he opened his eyes and made his way to his workbench, he found he wasn't alone. Trilly, with her pink checked apron and eyes as buggy as he remembered, was waiting for him, perched on his stool and humming what sounded like an off-key Wizarding Christmas carol.

"We is wanting to be thanking you for the gifts," Trilly explained, hopping down from her seat. "Puck and Trinket and Batsy and all of us is wanting me to be thanking you for the shoes." Trilly was practically glowing, she was so happy as she admired her new shoes, which were on the wrong feet, but then, her apron was also upside down and inside out, so maybe wrong to her had seemed just right.

He was glad she liked them—he'd made hers with especially nice silver buckles. He remembered that she'd always liked shiny things. He'd used the special elixir on the silver, of course; didn't want her having to polish her own shoes. Although, now that he thought about it, that might have been fun for a house elf. It was hard to tell.

Trilly's smile was ear to ear though, so he decided he'd done all right. "Happy Christmas, Trilly."

"Happy Christmas, yes! We is wishing you happy Christmases too." Trilly beamed up at him. "And now, I is singing you a Happy Christmas song that you is liking."

"Uh, okay. Thanks, Trilly." It wasn't like he had somewhere else to be, so Draco sat down on his stool and listened as Trilly held his hand and sang a rather warbly version of Jingle Spells. It was just like he remembered.

"So what do you think you'll do now that you're free?" Draco asked when she'd finished.

Trilly just laughed. "We was already being free!"

"You...what?"

"We is house elves for Hogwarts. We is working hard there! Trilly is feeding the children and Pinky is to be dusting and Hatcher is even sometimes helping in the gardens. But we is free elves." Trilly looked delighted at this, which Draco knew had to be unusual for house elves, but then, most house elves hadn't worked in the home where the Dark Lord had taken up residence.

"Then why were you helping me?"

"Little Draco Malfoy, you is not being so little any longer, but we is watching you grow up and watching you make shoes. But Trilly is overhearing Headmistress that you is needing help! So Trilly is telling Pinky and the others to come after the other childrens are in bed. And we is helping you make shoes. We is very careful not to break anything. And we is sewing and stitching for you."

Draco didn't know what to say. "I...you came because you wanted to help? After everything that they...? Thank you, Trilly. I don't...just...thanks."

Trilly came over and patted his knee. "You was being a boy. You was a naughty boy who was pulling Trinket's ears and chasing Batsy into the fountains, but you was being a boy. Master Lucius, he was being a man who was being a boy. Trilly was not liking that at all. But we is not to be fearing him any longer; we is free elves."

"Indeed." Draco was at a loss. "Well, thanks. For coming anyway."

"Can we be coming back to help you sometimes?" she asked eagerly. "We is wanting to, sometimes. And we is good shoemakers."

"Uh, sure. Of course. If you want. That'd be...fine. Thank you."

"Trilly is being an old elf now, though. Trilly's hands is hurting sometimes, from the cutting and stitching. Trilly is being good at cleaning though, can Trilly be doing that instead for you? The house is needing Trilly to be dusting."

Draco smiled. "All right. But only if you sing for me too, sometimes."

Trilly smiled gently and took his hand. "Trilly is already singing to you every night, little Draco. You is just not being awake to hear her." Before he could ask her about the elf magic they'd been using to get the shoes to fit perfectly, she squeezed his hand briefly. "Happy Christmas," she said once more and quickly Apparated away with a pop.

She was, of course, completely free to do so.

~oOo~

Later that day Draco took a walk through the nearby streets.

He passed a few Muggle churches where bells rang out, and sometimes, there were people singing. It was pretty, Draco decided, and he stopped to listen to bits of the ceremonies.

He liked the singing better than the storytelling. He kept hearing a tale of some newborn baby being put in a trough for goats, and why goats would want to eat an infant, he'd never guess. And he snorted aloud when he heard the bit about the three magi who brought the baby spices. Merlin, the silly Muggles; they'd never figured it out that mixing the Frankincense with the Myrrh counter-clockwise in a pot of heated milk during the month of the winter solstice would keep the baby from getting colic.

The shops he passed were all dark for the holiday and the park was abandoned as well, the day icy and the sky grey. He sat on a park bench for a little while anyway, until eventually his fingers got cold despite his warming charms. It was then that he, too, decided to head home. On his way, he plucked a sprig of berries from a bush he passed before he left the park and snagged a small branch from a pine tree along the block before he reached his own.

A little sentimentality seemed appropriate at Christmas, even for him, he thought as he walked along. He sniffed the pine branch, inhaling the woodsy, earthy scent. They'd always had a tree for the holidays when he was little, and Hogwarts had always been covered in decorations through the month of December.

When he got home, he put them on his little table and set about making his dinner. It wasn't nearly the feast that almost everyone else was enjoying that day, but it was a bit better than he'd done in recent years. At least it wasn't his normal stew thankfully, and the day before he'd purchased two little Christmas cookies for afters from the little bakery down the street. No one in the shop had glared and turned him away because Death Eaters didn't deserve sweets.

It was good Draco had been recently reminded about the folly of hope, or he'd have been tempted to be a bit full of it.

~oOo~

Draco sat back in his chair and put his hand on his belly, sticking his stomach out as far as he could. Still flat as flat could be. Perhaps by next year, if he kept eating so well, he'd have a little bump to show for it.

He flicked his wand a few times, and the kitchen started cleaning itself accordingly. Once that was done, he wandered over to his fireplace and stared at the fire burning. On a whim, he found himself Summoning a cushion and curling up with it on the floor.

It wasn't very comfortable and he didn't enjoy it half so much as he remembered. He felt a bit silly too, so he sat up again. He wondered how many shoes he'd need to sell before he could justify purchasing some Firewhiskey. The whisky was why he'd so enjoyed lying there and watching the fire last time, even if Potter had been blocking his line of vision at the time.

Draco sighed. This was the best Christmas he'd had in years. He'd taken a nice walk and heard a choir sing, and his house smelled like pine. He hadn't worked at all, having taken the full day off, and he'd even had Trilly sing to him, like when he was little. And Merlin knew his stomach was nice and full.

Still, there was something—

A sound caught his attention, breaking his train of thought. Draco tilted his head toward the door of his workshop. Was someone knocking? He must've forgotten to set his wards after arriving home.

Except...everything was closed for Christmas. Surely no one was wanting to buy shoes at this hour. Trilly and the other house elves simply Apparated in and out, and he never had any other visitors.

Well, except for one.

Draco swallowed and held his breath, listening.

There it was. Another knock.

Slowly, very slowly, Draco got to his feet, and then forced himself to walk leisurely through his workshop and out to his shop front. He kept his eyes on the ground the entire way, refusing to look up. He didn't want to look through the glass display to see who was at the door.

Not just yet.

Because every moment he didn't look meant another moment the curl of heat in his belly could grow, hope filling places that he didn't know had space left to fill.

He wanted it to be Potter. He was furious with the git, of course, for not listening and assuming some terrible behaviour on Draco's part. But he wanted it to be Harry anyway. And he was afraid to look up and have those hopes dashed.

When he reached the front door, Draco still refused to look up.

The knock sounded again. Gentler, unhurried.

"Let me in?"

Draco couldn't help it, his eyes blurred when he heard the voice. As he stood there, he found himself grasping the door frame for support. Since when did Draco Malfoy ever get what he hoped for? But the voice... it had been...

"Please?"

Draco nodded and unlocked the door, opening it slowly. Not looking up, not looking up.

A pair of dark grey boots with shiny silver buckles stepped into his frame of vision. They were full of slush and dirt but Draco wanted them right there on his clean shop floor anyway.

"Draco, I'm sorry. I thought you were—oh, it doesn't matter what I thought—I was wrong, and I should've let you explain."

Draco nodded again and cleared his throat. "Yes. You should have."

"McGonagall told me, when I stopped by Hogwarts this afternoon to wish her a Happy—well, anyway, she told me what you'd tried to do, and I'd realised what an arse I'd been, thinking you'd somehow forced them to work double shifts or something while taking all the credit—I don't know. It doesn't—look, I'm sorry, Draco. Gods, I'm terrible at apologising."

Frowning, Draco finally looked up, meeting Harry's green eyes. "I haven't done anything wrong in about seven years, Potter. And trust me, it's been tempting, every time someone turns me away or spits when I walk by. But I haven't, and yet, no one ever believes I've changed."

"That's not true. I believe it. I do! I just...I don't know. I was an idiot. I don't know what I was thinking. But I'm not the only one, either. McGonagall, she knows, and so do your house elves, and other people, they're catching on too. Neville said the other day that you'd seemed different, when he came by. I think we've all grown up, or are working on it, and we're all changing. I'm still terrible about not thinking before I act and I'll probably never remember to get the wrinkles out of my robes, but I'm trying. And people will start to see you have too."

"Perhaps. Well, then, apology accepted, Potter. You can shut the door on your way out." Draco turned away, certain that Potter had simply wanted to get that off his chest so he could enjoy the rest of his hols guilt-free.

"I...oh. Okay. Right, then."

Draco heard the door open, but when it didn't shut afterwards, he turned. Potter stood there, biting his lip. "I just wanted to...Happy Christmas."

Draco let out a deep breath. "Happy Christmas."

"Right. Er, okay, I guess I'll just be—" Potter frowned. "Wait, we're mates now, yeah?"

"I suppose, yes."

Harry stepped back inside, quickly shutting the door and heading over to where Draco stood. "Good," he said, wrapping him in a tight hug. "Happy Christmas, Draco," he murmured.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," Draco said quietly.

Potter didn't let go, so when he felt Potter's breath soft against his neck, he turned slightly. The warmth was intoxicating.

Harry's cheeks were flushed and his green eyes bright. And his lips...well...they were chapped again, raw and red.

Draco kissed them anyway.

And Harry kissed him back.

Comments

[arcadianmaggie.livejournal.com]

I re-read this when I was you had posted it on your LJ and loved it just as much the second time around.

I feel all happy inside!!

xo

[icmezzo.livejournal.com]

Thanks, Maggie. I really appreciate all your help with it, as always.

-ICM xoxo

[birdsofshore]

I did love this! You lovely thing!

[icmezzo.livejournal.com]

Oh, thanks, Birds! I'm so glad. <3

[magnolia822.livejournal.com]

I adored this fic! It was such a cute idea, and you executed it brilliantly. The beginning was just so sad for poor Draco, and the turn around was so satisfying. Loved how Harry kept coming back for more :)

[icmezzo.livejournal.com]

Oh, I'm so glad you liked it. And thank you for reading! :)

[twiweasel.livejournal.com]

This was so lovely!! It gave me a warm feeling in my belly and made me want to go hug my husband and kiss his chapped lips! :)

[icmezzo.livejournal.com]

Awww, thank you. And I do hope you gave your hubs a nice smooch!

[purple-lights.livejournal.com]

This was wonderful. I'm glad that Draco's life is improving. Any chance for a sequel to see how they're doing?

[icmezzo.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I'm glad you liked it. I hadn't really thought about writing a sequel but it might be fun to return to them at some point. Thanks for the suggestion!

Absolutely Wonderful

[darku.livejournal.com]

I stumbled upon this from annafugazzi and I'm so happy that I took a chance to read it. This story is beautifully written - I love how it slowly plays out and in the end, there's a wonderfully sweet ending. I'm always a sucker for stories that pull at your heartstrings and the entire time, I felt so badly for Draco and worried that yes - in the end - he would lose out on the magical shoemaking and be poor again. Ahh! This was so wonderful. Great job!

Re: Absolutely Wonderful

[icmezzo.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for the kind comment. I'm so glad you enjoyed it. :) (And thanks to Annafugazzi, too, if she sent you here!)

I kept wishing I could hug Draco the entire time I was writing. I'm glad that seemed to translate for you as a reader.

Thank you for reading!