Malfoy's Feet

Malfoy's Feet

Possessing one's own family shoemaker and dozens of other craftsmen kept quiet any number of secrets, Harry suspected. Looking at Malfoy's impossibly-black leather shoes, for example, he never would have guessed that Malfoy had ugly feet. He did. Not hideous, just ugly, in a bland sort of way, which must have annoyed Malfoy worse than if they had been hideous. His feet were too long, narrow near the ankles but wide at the toes, bony in strange places, toes short and stubby. His left foot had a bunion on the outside, which would have been a bigger deal if he had come from a family that wasn't naturally predisposed to have its shoes custom made.

Though it was obviously Malfoy's nature to pretend that imperfections did not exist--he was similar to the Dursleys in that, and similarly incorrect: it didn't cease to exist just because he didn't want to believe it existed--Harry imagined that the ugliness of Malfoy's feet bothered him, especially the bunion. A bunion was a peasant's problem, caused by too many years of hard work in ill-fitting shoes. Even the name sounded plebian. Bunion. It sounded like plowing a field with an ox. The closest Malfoy had ever been to an ox or to a plow was his Muggle Studies book, a class which, Harry was sure, he was taking so that he could kill his enemies more quickly through a better understanding of their ways and not, as he had insinuated, because it was the politically correct action to take as his father's son.

Malfoy could have had his feet operated on, but foot operations were tricky and had a chance of leaving him a cripple. Harry knew this because Tracy Polkiss, Dudley's friend Piers' oldest sister, had had her feet fixed so that she could wear high heels all the time. "But her feet didn't heal right, and she'll never be able to wear anything but flats again. And she can barely stand up for five minutes at a time, her feet hurt so much," Aunt Petunia told the ladies of the Little Whinging Auxiliary Club. She had invited four of them over for tea, which Harry served wordlessly. "Don't worry, he's sedated," she'd whispered to each questioning, fearful glance at the front door. "Don't say a word or you'll eat nothing but Dudley's leftovers for a month," she'd told Harry before the ladies arrived, which, they both knew, meant he'd eat less than crumbs.

Malfoy wouldn't risk never walking again. And even if the operation were successful, it would leave scars, which, as Harry's forehead attested, could not be removed by magic. Scars were even worse than natural ugliness in Malfoy's eyes.

Of all the parts of the boy whom he now knew far too well, Harry like Malfoy's feet the best. Malfoy hated his feet. He would chop them off in an instant if he could, but he couldn't, he needed them, and he hated that need more than he hated their ugliness. His feet and his hatred of his feet were an extreme annoyance and at the same time a complete necessity for Malfoy. Something about that appealed to Harry. He could understand it.