Love in the Detail
Title: Love in the Detail
Fandoms: Harry Potter
Pairings: Slight Draco/Hermione
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just love 'em
Warnings: None
Summary: Written for the second round of the Harry Potter Last Author Standing Competition over at harrypotter_las.
Damn it! He’d cut himself again on the stupid knife. Throwing it away in frustration, Draco wondered once more why he refused to take the easier option and make the bloody shoes with magic alone. It would be quick and - far more importantly - it would be painless.
But every time he went to put the knife down and pick up his wand, a little voice in his head would whisper: what are you doing, giving up? Are you some muggle who gives up at the first hurdle? You’re a Malfoy for god’s sake, act like it!
Draco would swear profusely at the little voice for awhile before stomping over to the knife, and starting again - all the while muttering darkly about idiotic ideas conceived in the middle of the night.
The leather sat in front of him, its deep red sheen almost black in the dim light of the classroom. It looked menacing even now, as it sat on the table, bereft of life. The dragon had been a Chinese Fireball, according to the tanner that he had purchased the leather from. Originally he’d been looking for Romanian Longhorn leather - the dark green scales an obvious choice for a true and loyal member of Slytherin - but his eyes has been drawn again and again to the dark red gleam of the Fireball skin.
Glancing at his knife, Draco could see that the blade was dull with lack of magic. Pulling out his wand, he aimed it at the knife.
“Draco sectum.”
Turning back, he carefully brought the re-enchanted blade down on the waiting hide.
“Still sneaking off at night, Malfoy?”
Draco turned from the Slytherin dungeon’s exit.
“Still sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, Zabini?”
Blaise smiled and returned his gaze to the fire.
“What can I say, I do love a mystery.”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“I’m just...”
“And whenever you come back you always smell of boot polish and leather.”
Draco stood stunned for a moment, before whirling around and storming out of the dungeon. As he left, he could hear Blaise’s laughter echoing off the cold stone walls.
It had been three weeks of painstaking work but Draco had finally managed to finish cutting the dragon-hide. The soles sat cut beside them and Draco had made sure that they would fit his feet exactly. Now, however, looking at them closely, he wasn’t so sure. They looked so... dainty, that he couldn’t shake the feeling they were far too small.
Draco had reached the point where proceeding any further without the aid of magic would be disastrous - he was by no means a cobbler - so he withdrew his wand from his robes and performed the specialist charm that he had been practicing.
“Calceus sociare!”
The thick pieces of hide rose in the air and began to dance around each other, the soft leather lining he had cut sliding gently behind them. The smooth, blood-red laces that Draco had prepared beforehand began to wind their way through newly made eyelets and the delicate nails that had lain on the table sprung up and speared though the sole and into the curling scarlet leather beyond.
Draco repeated the process on the second boot and then stood back to admire his handiwork. They were indeed spectacular shoes, slender and refined. Smiling, he cleaned up the scraps and returned to the dungeon.
Draco sat on his bed; the dark green covers contrasting with the deep crimson of the shoes. Sliding one pointed foot into a boot, he smiled as the soft inner leather slipped past his ankle, only to frown as his foot jammed in the tight turn of the boot.
He hurriedly tried the other boot, only to find the same problem.
This couldn’t be happening! After all the care he’d put into cutting the pieces. How could he have made a pair of shoes that were too damn small?!
An hour later and the boots lay discarded on the floor of the now-empty dorm room.
That oaf Hagrid had chosen Seaskrits as the new animals to study in Care of Magical Creatures and Draco found himself wading in the shallows of the lake with the others. Sneaking a look at the Gryffindors, Draco couldn’t resist remarking on the state of Hermione’s legs.
“I see your legs are as pasty as your face, Granger.”
Hermione spared a short glance at Draco.
“Been staring at my legs, Malfoy? How very flattering of you.”
Ron sniggered and Draco found himself speechless. He had spent rather a long time looking at her legs - her slim, pale legs. Watching the way she held herself delicately out of the water...
An hour later the students waded out of the lake and back to their waiting shoes.
As he sat on the springy grass pulling on his socks, Draco noticed a pair of black shoes halfway down the line that looked disturbingly similar in size to his own dragon-skin boots. He took his time lacing up his shoes, waiting to see who owned them. When they finally did sit down Draco dropped his gaze, wishing that he were more surprised. Fate, it seemed had a sense of humour.
“...it’s not as if I can’t do it myself, Ron. Honestly, you’re worse than my mother!”
Ron sputtered an incoherent reply as he, Hermione and Harry walked up the stairs towards the portrait of the Fat Lady.
“What this?” asked Harry as they reached the Gryffindor rooms.
Hermione followed Harry’s gaze and bent down to pick up a pair of Gryffindor-red, dragon-hide boots.
“They’re absolutely gorgeous!” she exclaimed. “And I bet they’re expensive too! But what are they doing here?”
“Maybe the answer’s on there,” Ron suggested as he jabbed a finger at the delicate card that swung from the neck of one boot.
Hermione flipped the card around to reveal very small, very neat emerald green writing.
For Hermione: These boots are yours. They always were.
Fandoms: Harry Potter
Pairings: Slight Draco/Hermione
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just love 'em
Warnings: None
Summary: Written for the second round of the Harry Potter Last Author Standing Competition over at harrypotter_las.
Damn it! He’d cut himself again on the stupid knife. Throwing it away in frustration, Draco wondered once more why he refused to take the easier option and make the bloody shoes with magic alone. It would be quick and - far more importantly - it would be painless.
But every time he went to put the knife down and pick up his wand, a little voice in his head would whisper: what are you doing, giving up? Are you some muggle who gives up at the first hurdle? You’re a Malfoy for god’s sake, act like it!
Draco would swear profusely at the little voice for awhile before stomping over to the knife, and starting again - all the while muttering darkly about idiotic ideas conceived in the middle of the night.
The leather sat in front of him, its deep red sheen almost black in the dim light of the classroom. It looked menacing even now, as it sat on the table, bereft of life. The dragon had been a Chinese Fireball, according to the tanner that he had purchased the leather from. Originally he’d been looking for Romanian Longhorn leather - the dark green scales an obvious choice for a true and loyal member of Slytherin - but his eyes has been drawn again and again to the dark red gleam of the Fireball skin.
Glancing at his knife, Draco could see that the blade was dull with lack of magic. Pulling out his wand, he aimed it at the knife.
“Draco sectum.”
Turning back, he carefully brought the re-enchanted blade down on the waiting hide.
“Still sneaking off at night, Malfoy?”
Draco turned from the Slytherin dungeon’s exit.
“Still sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, Zabini?”
Blaise smiled and returned his gaze to the fire.
“What can I say, I do love a mystery.”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“I’m just...”
“And whenever you come back you always smell of boot polish and leather.”
Draco stood stunned for a moment, before whirling around and storming out of the dungeon. As he left, he could hear Blaise’s laughter echoing off the cold stone walls.
It had been three weeks of painstaking work but Draco had finally managed to finish cutting the dragon-hide. The soles sat cut beside them and Draco had made sure that they would fit his feet exactly. Now, however, looking at them closely, he wasn’t so sure. They looked so... dainty, that he couldn’t shake the feeling they were far too small.
Draco had reached the point where proceeding any further without the aid of magic would be disastrous - he was by no means a cobbler - so he withdrew his wand from his robes and performed the specialist charm that he had been practicing.
“Calceus sociare!”
The thick pieces of hide rose in the air and began to dance around each other, the soft leather lining he had cut sliding gently behind them. The smooth, blood-red laces that Draco had prepared beforehand began to wind their way through newly made eyelets and the delicate nails that had lain on the table sprung up and speared though the sole and into the curling scarlet leather beyond.
Draco repeated the process on the second boot and then stood back to admire his handiwork. They were indeed spectacular shoes, slender and refined. Smiling, he cleaned up the scraps and returned to the dungeon.
Draco sat on his bed; the dark green covers contrasting with the deep crimson of the shoes. Sliding one pointed foot into a boot, he smiled as the soft inner leather slipped past his ankle, only to frown as his foot jammed in the tight turn of the boot.
He hurriedly tried the other boot, only to find the same problem.
This couldn’t be happening! After all the care he’d put into cutting the pieces. How could he have made a pair of shoes that were too damn small?!
An hour later and the boots lay discarded on the floor of the now-empty dorm room.
That oaf Hagrid had chosen Seaskrits as the new animals to study in Care of Magical Creatures and Draco found himself wading in the shallows of the lake with the others. Sneaking a look at the Gryffindors, Draco couldn’t resist remarking on the state of Hermione’s legs.
“I see your legs are as pasty as your face, Granger.”
Hermione spared a short glance at Draco.
“Been staring at my legs, Malfoy? How very flattering of you.”
Ron sniggered and Draco found himself speechless. He had spent rather a long time looking at her legs - her slim, pale legs. Watching the way she held herself delicately out of the water...
An hour later the students waded out of the lake and back to their waiting shoes.
As he sat on the springy grass pulling on his socks, Draco noticed a pair of black shoes halfway down the line that looked disturbingly similar in size to his own dragon-skin boots. He took his time lacing up his shoes, waiting to see who owned them. When they finally did sit down Draco dropped his gaze, wishing that he were more surprised. Fate, it seemed had a sense of humour.
“...it’s not as if I can’t do it myself, Ron. Honestly, you’re worse than my mother!”
Ron sputtered an incoherent reply as he, Hermione and Harry walked up the stairs towards the portrait of the Fat Lady.
“What this?” asked Harry as they reached the Gryffindor rooms.
Hermione followed Harry’s gaze and bent down to pick up a pair of Gryffindor-red, dragon-hide boots.
“They’re absolutely gorgeous!” she exclaimed. “And I bet they’re expensive too! But what are they doing here?”
“Maybe the answer’s on there,” Ron suggested as he jabbed a finger at the delicate card that swung from the neck of one boot.
Hermione flipped the card around to reveal very small, very neat emerald green writing.
For Hermione: These boots are yours. They always were.