Cut From the Sky

Chapter 4: Wrapped in Perfect Sunshine

The next time Harry entered the boutique was the thirty-sixth of November 2nd. When he entered, absently humming along to the chime of the bell, Malfoy said neither "no," nor "oh." Instead, he smiled.

"Bonjour," Malfoy said, and his smile was mild and pleasant. Then, he disappeared towards the changing rooms, a stack of robes draped over his arms.

"Bonjour," Harry replied, belatedly, and it sounded all wrong, and when he tried to smile back, the corners of his mouth stretched uncomfortably and the skin on his cheeks seemed thin and crackly under his glamours.

The music was soft, the clouds amiable and rainless and far away, and a handful of customers were quietly browsing. The boutique's magic gently brushed his skin where it wasn't clogged by glamours. Taking off towards the sky-robes in the back, Harry noted the sticky sound of the soles of his trainers against the boutique floor. They left marks, muddy, watery imprints, dark against the light floorboards. Specks of rain dropping from Harry's hair and coatsleeves added to the mess. With a sigh, he took out his wand and directed a drying charm at his shoes. It came out pretty well this time: His feet felt warm, suddenly unstuck from the no longer soggy wool of his socks, and when he took another step, the floor remained clean.

With a non-hostile Malfoy busy consulting with a customer by the changing rooms, Harry ambled through the rows of robes, letting his fingers strum against the fabric. If he hadn't spent a small eternity staring at a beige hotel ceiling or trudging through sludgy city streets, he wouldn't have cared much for Malfoy's store. As it was, the colours and fabric held just a hint of intrigue, a dash of novelty in a string of dreary days.

Carding through the Cut From the Sky collection, Harry attempted to find the robes he'd tried last time – brilliant skies and sea salt – but there were two full racks of robes in similar shades of blue. Sure, he'd noticed they came in different cuts, adorned with different embellishments, different fastenings, but Harry hadn't paid close attention before. He pulled some likely contenders off their hangers and faced the mirror taking up the wall to his left, large and arched.

His hair was short, glamoured to be cropped close to his scalp, where usually it was just a little too long, curly and unruly. His scar, facial hair and glasses gone, his eyes deep brown and his jawline different in a way he couldn't quite put a finger on. Harry frowned at his reflection. His beard, usually soft and, after all these years, almost entirely unnoticeable to him, always felt unbearably itchy under glamours. Harry scratched a fingernail down his empty jawline, hard, leaving in its wake an angry red trail.

"Elles sont parmi mes préférées," Malfoy said from somewhere outside his field of vision. Harry jumped.

"Um," Harry said, trying to remember if he knew any French at all – after all, he had watched an entire day's worth of French cooking and baking shows – but then decided he was probably allowed to not know any. People travelled, sometimes even just for fun. "I don't know any French."

"Oh," Malfoy replied, and it was light and quick, followed by a smile. "That's alright. I said these are some of my favourites." He stepped closer, just near enough to reach out and brush a finger against a pair of light blue robes in Harry's arms. "Istanbul in late May, around four years ago. An afternoon."

"Istanbul." Harry hadn't really counted on making conversation with Malfoy. He hadn't meant to, at least not before it was absolutely necessary. He'd wanted to throw on a few robes in silence, pick a favourite, go up to pay, pretend he'd forgotten his wallet, and somehow wheedle Malfoy into a deal. He'd come back and pay tomorrow, Harry would promise, on his honour, and Malfoy would allow it, because he probably cared quite a lot about honour and rubbish like that.