Boots of Spanish Leather

Boots of Spanish Leather

The buzz of dinner-table conversation was giving Draco Malfoy a headache. No doubt the excellent elf-made wine, which he was tossing down without regard to consequences, also contributed to the pounding in his skull. Nor was the alcohol improving his mood.

Draco was bored--bored, frustrated, and very much at loose ends. He scarcely bothered to take in the details of the splendid dining room, handsome as it was. Graceful nymphs and fat, naked cherubs cavorted on the painted ceiling; ancient tapestries lined the walls, depicting gory scenes from some Goblin war or other. Sparkling crystal and gleaming silver, soft candlelight--all were lost on Draco. To him, this was just one more grand salon in an endless and pointless parade of grand salons throughout wizarding Europe.

The Malfoys' self-imposed exile from Britain in the aftermath of the last wizard war was certainly understandable. Lucius Malfoy had escaped imprisonment in Azkaban by the skin of his teeth. Draco shared in his parents' disgrace and was not at all sorry to evade the harsh glare of public opprobrium. He was also well aware that the Malfoy money gave them entree into the most elevated social circles and supported a life of ease and opulence.

But what was luxury, Draco thought, when you had nothing to do and could see no clear path to a future? He'd lost control of his life--or had he ever been the master of his own fate? With a shudder, he recalled his sixth year at Hogwarts, when he'd been the Dark Lord's tool in his plot to kill Dumbledore.

At the moment, he was in no condition to ponder that troubling question. What he needed was another drink. He snapped his fingers, and a house-elf appeared at his side with another glass of wine.

The only bright spot in this drearily familiar scene was the girl sitting across the table, too far away for any attempt at conversation. Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised to see her there; she and her family were French, after all, and this was Paris. Evidently their hosts, Monsieur and Madame Amadoux, were neutral on the subject of political allegiance.

Draco hadn't seen Gabrielle Delacour since the Triwizard Tournament so many years before, when she was just a child and far beneath his notice. There was no ignoring her now, however. She'd grown into a beauty like her sister Fleur, with the same blue eyes and silver-blonde waterfall of hair. And from the little he could see of her figure . . . Draco found himself wanting to catch her eye, but every time he tried, she seemed to be looking the other way.

After a house-elf placed his dessert in front of him--an impossibly elaborate concoction in the shape of the Eiffel Tower--Draco tried once more and caught Gabrielle looking at him. She immediately turned her head, but not before he saw the sneer of disdain on her lovely lips.

Well, what did he expect? The girl's older sister had married one of the Muggle-loving Weasleys, hadn't she? Her family no doubt opposed everything his own stood for. Gabrielle herself had developed a major crush on Harry Potter when she (erroneously) believed the prat had saved her life. Stupid girl, really--why bother with her?

And yet, Draco couldn't keep his eyes off her. She reminded him of something . . . Through the alcoholic fog in his brain, a memory swam into focus.

He was twelve years old, and his parents had dragged him to yet another art museum in some world capital or other. Despite their general contempt for all things Muggle, the Malfoys had an inexplicable love for non-magical works of art. Draco dawdled behind them, wholly indifferent to the painted canvases on the walls (the people in them didn't even move), until one picture stopped him in his tracks. It portrayed a young woman standing in a gigantic seashell, evidently floating on the sea. Her golden hair streamed behind her, but far more fascinating to Draco, she was almost completely nude.

He remembered thinking that this Venus woman must be a witch, or she would've drowned. But mostly, Draco had wanted to see the few parts she was attempting to cover . . .

When Gabrielle rose from the table with the other guests, Draco found himself wondering what was underneath the pale blue velvet gown she was wearing. While it was modestly cut, like most witches' garb, the thin fabric clung like a second skin, showing off Gabrielle's full figure. When she turned to leave the room, her skirt swirled around her hips like an eddying sea. Such enticing hips . . . As quickly as he could, given the amount of wine he'd consumed, Draco got up and--somewhat unsteadily--followed her out of the room.

Once inside the drawing room, however, he found himself trapped in a circle of his parents' old Parisian friends.

"Ah, Draco, my boy," cried an old wizard with wispy white hair. "'Ow are you? You 'ave been through so much, cher garcon."

The old bore launched into a series of questions about Draco's future plans. Draco barely listened; his eyes wandered as he tried to spot Gabrielle through the crush of people. At last, Draco caught sight of her and, without bothering to say adieu to Monsieur LeGrande, Draco turned and pushed his way through the crowd to where Gabrielle stood. The thought that she might disappear before he could reach her made him hurry, not caring if he bumped into someone or stepped on toes.

With a little judicious shoving, Draco created a space between Gabrielle and an older witch he vaguely recognized but couldn't place. In doing so, he jostled Gabrielle slightly. She fixed the interloper with a glare, which sharpened when she saw who it was.

"Hello, Gabrielle," said Draco, hoping he sounded suave and wasn't slurring his words too badly. "I haven't seen you in ages; how have you been?" Hardly scintillating, but it was a start.

Her beautifully curved lips compressed with annoyance.

"Draco. I see you are still alive." The thought clearly gave Gabrielle no pleasure.

Draco chose to overlook that. "Indeed I am," he said, "very much so."

The sight of Gabrielle's generous bosom, up close, made him feel alive to the tips of his fingers, though his head throbbed uncomfortably. "Are you still at Beauxbatons, or have you graduated?"

She had turned halfway toward the older witch and did not acknowledge Draco's question for a long moment. Finally, as though the words were being dragged out of her, she replied, "I am no longer in school."

Well, a terse reply was better than none.

"Good," said Draco, a little more loudly than he had planned to. It seemed as difficult to control his vocal cords as it was to manage his body, which swayed slightly. The noise level in the room seemed to be rising, and the din made his headache worse. He made an effort to pull himself together.

"Listen, Gabrielle," he said, with a smile he hoped was ingratiating. "It's so noisy in here, and my head feels like some giant's trying to pound it to rubble. Could we go someplace quieter? I'd really like to talk to you."

Gabrielle drew back with a sharp intake of breath, but before she could say no, the older witch smiled at her and, to Draco's amazement, gave him the tiniest wink.

"Oh, go along, dear," she said. "Don't hang about with us old folks. There's a little sitting room upstairs that's quite comfy. I know, because Madame Amadoux is my cousin, and I have spent many pleasant hours in this house."

At that, Gabrielle apparently felt obliged to follow Draco as he threaded his way through the crowded room and out into the hall, where a marble staircase wound upward toward the second floor.

"I do not think it is necessary to go up there," said Gabrielle in a haughty voice. "Anything you 'ave to say to me, you can say 'ere. It is not crowded."

So, she was going to take a hard line with him, was she? Draco thought a moment.

"No, it's not crowded," he said levelly, "but it's not very comfortable, either. After standing around listening to old bores natter about nothing, a quiet sitting room sounds good to me." That was a long sentence, and Draco wasn't sure he'd articulated all the words quite as clearly as he would have liked.

Gabrielle shot him a disdainful look. "Perhaps you would feel better if you 'ad not drunk so much wine," she said. "I believe you are quite inebriated."

"Oh, no" Draco reassured her, "not quite. C'mon, Gabrielle, please. Let's just find the sitting room. I'd like to hear what you're doing now."

Gabrielle shrugged, as if to say, "I suppose giving this insect a few minutes of my precious time couldn't hurt." Draco gestured for her to precede him, and she swept up the stairs, her skirt trailing over the marble. She did not realize that Draco's pale gray eyes were focusing--to the extent that they could focus at all--on her shapely derriere.

They halted at the top of the stairs, not sure which of the many doors that led off the central hall might belong to the room they were seeking. The first door opened onto a long, dark gallery lined with portraits but without any seats. The second revealed what was clearly a library.

"In here?" asked Gabrielle, and she was halfway through the door before Draco called her back. Even through his alcoholic haze, he could see the room lacked one essential element.

"No, let's keep looking," Draco insisted, and he took Gabrielle's hand automatically, impatient to get her moving along. She snatched it back at once, as though she'd touched a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Still, she moved along with him down the long corridor. Gabrielle opened the next door, but when she saw a handsome canopied bed inside, she backed quickly out, nearly stepping on Draco's toes, and slammed the door.

At long last, they found the little sitting room, which seemed cozy, with a fire already blazing in the grate. Draco's eyes lighted at once on the overstuffed sofa, while Gabrielle's pretty little nose wrinkled at the sight of the shiny fabric, which was printed with large, showy flowers.

"Chintz!" she exclaimed. "You would think such wealthy people would 'ave better taste."

"Who cares what it looks like, as long as it's comfortable?" said Draco. "Shall we see?"

Gabrielle let Draco seat himself first, then took a seat as far away from him as possible. So far, things weren't going quite as Draco hoped. Some smooth talking seemed called for.

"Ah, this is better," he purred, stretching luxuriantly. "Now, maybe we can get to know each other a little better." In the process of stretching, Draco managed to inch a little closer to Gabrielle without her noticing.

"'Oo says I wish to know you better?" said Gabrielle, her nose in the air. "Why should I want to know a nasty little Death Eater?"

The insult roused Draco's ire, but he worked to keep his temper. Gabrielle might be a Muggle-loving snob, but she was a gorgeous Muggle-loving snob. If he played his cards right, he might still wrest some pleasure from an otherwise wasted evening.

Draco kept his expression genial as he looked into the girl's round blue eyes. In his experience, a soft voice and a direct gaze were highly effective tools for handling women. He thought of Pansy Parkinson, whom he hadn't seen since his family's hurried exodus from Britain, with some regret; she'd been so easy to manage.

He was tempted to summon a house-elf to bring them drinks, but that might put Gabrielle on her guard. And if he drank any more alcohol, it might affect him in a way that would defeat the plan that was forming in his clouded mind.

"I'm sure you've heard a lot of rumors," Draco said in a serious tone, "but I was never a Death Eater. Not really." He added the last hastily, thinking of the Dark Mark on his forearm.

"My whole family suffered because of Voldemort." This last statement was true in a literal sense, though it left out a great deal.

"I am sure zay deserved it!" Gabrielle said, and her lovely eyes flashed with indignation.

That gave Draco an inspiration.

"Yes, I hate to admit it, but they did." He was sober in expression, if not in fact.

Before she could interrupt, he hurried on. "And they're still suffering for their mistakes. We all are. Do you think it's fun, wandering all over the world, not being able to set foot in our own country? Officially, my father has paid his debt to society, but in a way he's still in prison."

Nice phrase, Draco, he thought. You haven't lost your touch, even though your head feels like a cleaved melon.

"Why doesn't your father just go home and face his critics?" said Gabrielle scornfully. "'E is a coward!"

Anger threatened to overcome Draco's studied composure. HIs head throbbed worse than ever, and he had to count to ten before replying. Meanwhile, he took advantage of Gabrielle's ruffled state to move closer. He was almost within reaching distance now.

Draco sighed dramatically and once more gazed deeply into Gabrielle's eyes with a wistful expression in his own.

"Yes, I can see that some people would think that, but I'm not afraid of what people say. I'm only staying with my parents because they need my support. I don't care how many so-called friends they have, they're really lonely, and they depend on me so much--I can't stand the thought of leaving them alone."

The calculated note of pathos seemed to work on Gabrielle. Her expression finally softened.

"I know what you mean, Draco," she said. "I could never leave my parents alone if they needed me."

Draco followed up his advantage, scooting a little closer as he spoke--so close, his thigh nearly touched hers.

"Actually, Gabrielle, the main thing I wanted to talk to you about is your career plans."

Gabrielle's eyebrows rose in surprise, and Draco sighed dramatically. "I guess that sounds strange, but under the circumstances, I've had a really hard time figuring out what I want to do with my life. I thought maybe you could help me."

He made a conscious effort to enunciate clearly and sound sincere. HIs head seemed to be a bit clearer, though no less painful.

"Well," said Gabrielle with a slight frown, "what do you wish to do? You must 'ave 'ad career advice while you were at 'ogwarts, did you not?"

"Oh, yes," Draco sighed again, inching a few millimeters closer. "I wanted to work at the Ministry, but that's out of the question now . . ." He trailed off, acutely aware of Gabrielle's nearness, of the inviting curves of her lips and her lush body. He could feel the heat rising from her porcelain skin, or was it his own heat?

Just then Gabrielle opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, Draco reached out and put his arms around her, pinning her back against the sofa cushions, and kissed her slightly parted lips. At once, desire flooded through him like Firewhisky, and it only increased as Gabrielle began to struggle in his arms. She was strong, and holding her was harder than he would have guessed.

Finally wresting free, Gabrielle jumped up, flushed and panting.

"'Ow dare you!" she cried. "I never should 'ave come 'ere."

But before she could take more than a step toward the door, Draco impulsively withdrew his wand and waved it at the retreating girl.

"Petrificus partialis!" he shouted, and at once Gabrielle slumped to the carpet, her limbs sprawled in all directions.

Draco bent over her to make sure she could not get up and then pointed his wand at the door, locking it with a spell. For good measure, he used the Muffliato charm to prevent any sound from reaching the outside corridor. He could only hope he had pronounced the words clearly; his tongue still felt thick, as though he'd bitten into a piece of Ton-Tongue Toffee.

Gazing at Gabrielle's limp form , Draco had to grin at his own cleverness. True, he hadn't invented this spell; he'd found it buried in some old tome in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. He'd wondered at the time why it wasn't used more often, but then, spells did go in and out of fashion.

Anyway, what did it matter? The point was, he'd perfected it on Crabbe and Goyle, and it had worked now, when he needed it. Gabrielle couldn't move, but her body seemed to have remained pliable, just as he wanted it.

And oh, how he wanted her. Flickering firelight played over her voluptuous curves and lent an extra glow to her silvery hair. She was a goddess, a Venus--and she was completely under Draco's control.

He knelt beside her, happy to see that her blue eyes followed his movements, though her face was incapable of showing any expression. He could do anything he liked with Gabrielle, and she would be aware of all of it though helpless to stop it.

The thought thrilled him intensely. He hadn't planned it this way. If only she hadn't resisted, they might have . . . But she had, and now she was going to learn how stupid it was to defy Draco Malfoy.

He touched her arm, which was soft and moved easily. Good. Draco lifted Gabrielle's dress and, with some difficulty, pushed it over her head. He would have loved to rip it off, but he didn't dare risk awkward questions. As he struggled with the garment, Draco experienced a fleeting doubt about his ability to perform. He had consumed a great deal of wine.

He forced himself to concentrate on the voluptuous curves of the girl's near-naked body. Gabrielle wore only the scantiest of undergarments, and the sight aroused him even more. Impatiently, Draco unfastened his own robes and threw them aside, then removed the last few pieces of clothing that came between him and his prize.

Merlin, she was luscious! Unlike Botticelli's Venus, she exposed without even a filmy drapery or coyly placed hand to defend her modesty. Draco's desire rose to new heights, and all thoughts of inadequacy flew from his mind.

Roughly, he kissed Gabrielle's slightly parted lips. Was it his imagination, or did he hear the slightest of moans as he drew back? If so, he chose to interpret it as a sign of pleasure. Well, why shouldn't the girl enjoy herself? He was going to.

Fearful of discovery, Draco hastily explored the curves and hollows of Gabrielle's lovely body. As he bit her nipples, he thought he heard another tiny moan. He longed to bite her all over, but didn't dare leave telltale marks. As his passion rose higher, the blood pounded in his head and he once again became aware of searing pain. But Draco was more than ready now, and with a grunt of urgency, he rammed himself inside Gabrielle. There was resistance--she was a virgin, then. The realization increased his sense of triumph.

Did he feel a slight twitch in the body pressed beneath his? It must be his imagination. Her warm body lay unresisting, helpless. He tried to let go of all conscious thought as he thrust and rocked inside her, but he had the odd feeling that something was slowing him down, dulling his sensations--the alcohol, no doubt. Somehow, he was feeling less pleasure than he'd expected to.

It seemed to take forever to reach release, and when he did, the pressure inside his skull built to the point of explosion. With a yelp of agony, he rolled away, holding his head and moaning. He sat up and cradled his head in his hands, trying not to cry. After several long minutes, the pain abated somewhat.

How long had it been since he had led Gabrielle up the stairs? Draco glanced at his wrist, forgetting that he hadn't worn a watch that evening. Someone was bound to come looking for them. He had to get out of this room.

Slowly, his head throbbing, he gathering up his clothes and pulling them on. Silvery moonlight bathed Gabrielle as she lay sprawled on the floor, but Draco no longer took any pleasure in the sight. As quickly as possible, struggling with her limp arms and legs, he dressed her, not out of compassion but because he did not want anyone to know what he had done. His head spun, and he experienced a wave of nausea as he staggered to his feet.

At the door, Draco hesitated, wishing he could allow Gabrielle to remember this night for the rest of her life. But that was out of the question. How she explained her absence to her parents or made sense of certain other details was her problem. After smoothing down his hair and robes, Draco waved his wand at the girl on the floor and said, "Obliviate!" He'd know what he'd managed to do here tonight--that had to be enough.

ooOoo

Three weeks after the dinner party at the Amadoux home, Draco Malfoy was sitting near an open window in his family's rented Majorcan villa, enjoying the balmy sea breeze. He rarely thought of the events of that night in Paris, because the memory gave him less pleasure than he'd expected it would.

Looking idly out the window--he had nothing better to do--three specks appeared in the sky, moving as one toward the villa. As they drew nearer, the specks turned out to be owls bearing a large, rectangular white box among them. In a few moments, the owls with their burden flew in through the open window and landed on a spindly table in front of Draco. It was just barely large enough to hold the birds and the package.

Draco could not remember ordering anything, but perhaps he had forgotten. He detached the box from the owls' legs untied the light blue ribbon around it, and opened the lid.

When the owls realized that no treats were forthcoming, they hooted disapprovingly and took off through the window. Draco did not notice; he was too busy pawing through the box. Nestled in light blue tissue paper lay a pair of high-topped leather boots.

They were beautiful, made of brown leather so fine and soft it slid almost like silk under his fingers--Spanish leather, he guessed. No one else made boots of this quality.

As soon as he touched the boots, Draco was seized by an overwhelming urge to put them on. But who could have sent such a handsome gift, and why? His birthday was long past. He searched through the tissue for a card, but there was none. It must have been his parents; he'd ask when they returned from their afternoon visits.

He removed the boots from the box and placed them side by side on the floor, where they stood as if inviting him to thrust his feet into them. Not knowing how, he was quite sure they would fit, and they did, perfectly. How soft they felt, how beautifully molded to his feet, as though made just for him . . .

As Draco stood up and began to walk about the room, he was seized with a sudden, peculiar desire to dance. That was odd; Draco hated dancing.

Well, the boots gave him pleasure, didn't they? Why not kick up his heels a bit? After all, no one was there to see him. Draco tried out a few tentative steps, then a few more, and almost at once his feet were moving faster and faster, kicking higher and higher, and he twirled and stomped like a Russian Cossack . . .

The only trouble was, he could not stop. Try as he might, Draco's feet simply would not leave off their leaping and stepping and hopping. Within a few minutes Draco began to sweat; his exertions were great, and the afternoon warm. Soon, he was red in the face and beginning to feel faint.

Desperate, Draco managed to unfasten his robes and fling them into a corner. The boots, he thought. I have to take off these infernal boots. But his flying feet would not stay still long enough for him to get a grip on them.

And that was bad, because the wonderful boots no longer felt comfortable on his feet. In fact, they seemed a little tight; then they pinched; then they squeezed his toes so painfully that he cried out. HIs legs, too, felt the stress of the nonstop leaping and capering. They ached and burned horribly, but Draco could not make them stop. Even his arms, which flailed wildly and struck all manner of odd poses, were now protesting, loudly.

Draco was in almost too much pain for rational thought, but it was obvious the boots had been enchanted. But by whom? Who would want to give him such a devilish gift?

And then he the girt in the light blue gown and the evening in Paris when he'd . . . It was clear that his attempt to erase Gabrielle's memory had failed somehow. He'd been drunk; maybe he had slurred the words or messed up the wandwork.

As he jumped and kicked and turned about, Draco recalled a rumor that the Delacour girls had Veela blood. Could that increase their immunity to certain spells? Panting, desperate for relief, he tried to search his memory, but he knew very little about veelas except that they attracted men, leading them to their doom.

Through a deepening haze of agony and exhaustion, Draco tried to dance over to the writing desk where his wand lay, but the boots refused to let him. They seemed to be making all the decisions. In any case, he knew no spells that could reverse the magic on the accursed footwear. He could only frisk and twirl and gambol and hope that when his parents returned home, one of them would know what to do.

If he lasted that long. Exhaustion and thirst were weakening him more every moment, weakening him to the point of collapse, except that the enchanted boots would not allow him to collapse.

Draco Malfoy could only go on kick and leap and caper in a mad, infernal dance over which he had no control. No control at all.

The End

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