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It’s a fair assessment that Draco L. Malfoy knows clothes.
At the age of six, his short pants with the crisp seam and patent leather brogues earned him the title of Smartest-Dressed Lad amongst Mother’s Gardening Club. He was the only Hogwarts student at the Yule Ball, thank you very much, to don ink-black dress robes in a wool-blend with a touch of silk from the finest wizarding atelier in London. Recently, he has developed an affinity for Richard James’ classic British tailoring, wearing it with the intended cheek in which it was crafted.
And he is living proof that a pair of bespoke trousers tailored to hug the arse perfectly will catch a bloke faster than a piece of gouda in a mouse trap.
But Merlin help him, the mouse he’s in love with has an affinity for ugly sweaters.
Draco perches on the arm of the couch, a vision in royal blue cashmere and the aforementioned bespoke trousers. “Harry, for fuck’s sake, we will be late for tea!” He picks invisible lint off his knee and taps his foot impatiently.
When Harry enters, Draco appraises him with a sweeping glance, backtracking for a second look at Harry’s lower half. He’s wearing the pinstripe trousers that Harry complains are cut a little high in the crotch for his liking, but Draco had nearly attacked him in the menswear department so, of course, he bought two pairs.
Harry holds up his tie. “Help,” he says cringing.
Draco rolls his eyes and revels in the way Harry’s eyes flame evergreen as he approaches.
“Fuck, Malfoy, you look— ”
“I know,” Draco says, smugly flipping his long bangs out of his eyes. He tosses aside the tie and summons another from the bedroom, one in a proper colour to coordinate with his own attire.
Draco slips the tie around Harry’s neck, and Harry crowds him against the couch. “This is my favourite colour,” he purrs, running his hands down Draco’s torso, squeezing his waist.
Draco knots the tie at Harry’s clavicle. “I know,” he repeats. “And we are late.” He cinches the tie tight.
Harry coughs and steps back chuckling. “Can I help it if my boyfriend looks good enough to eat?” He summons a jumper from the bedroom, and Draco freezes mid-preen.
“You are not wearing that monstrosity, Potter.”
Harry’s grin disappears beneath the jumper as he pulls it over his head. “It’s cold out, yeah?”
“Then wear a fucking jacket!”
Harry’s grin widens, and he smooths his hands over the uneven multi-coloured loops and the big garish “H” stitched in acid green on his chest. “Mrs. Weasley knitted this for me. I like it.”
“I forbid you to wear it,” Draco insists, very nearly stamping his foot.
Harry’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “You forbid it?”
Draco huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. Hot spots bloom on his cheeks as Harry stalks slowly forward.
Harry takes hold of Draco’s wrists. “You don’t like my jumper?” he asks softly, placing Draco’s hands to his backside.
Draco pauses, mouth open, his retort stalled in his throat. “Are you… ?” He massages Harry’s bum and sucks in a breath, heat flooding his veins. “Are you wearing pants?”
Harry shakes his head.
“Those, er, that’s imported Italian cashmere,” Draco complains breathlessly, sliding his hands from Harry’s arse to his crotch. “Were you really going to free-ball at Mother’s afternoon tea? You vulgar, crass— ”
“The pants ruined the line of the trousers,” Harry states.
“Fuck,” Draco breathes.
They arrive 45 minutes late, Draco looking far more rumpled than normal, earning a raised brow from Mother. Meanwhile, Harry grins like a mouse that got the cheese and sips tea in his fucking jumper.
Draco L. Malfoy: 0; Weasley Jumper: 1
* * *
A week later, Harry pops into the study. “Have you seen my jumper?” He lifts pillows on the armchairs, tossing them askew.
“I do not keep track of your belongings, Potter,” Draco says idly, brandishing his wand to tidy the pillows. “And especially not that hideous thing.”
Harry narrows his eyes. “What have you done with it?”
Draco levels a haughty stare at him over his spectacles. “I have done nothing.”
It’s a half-truth.
He had, in fact, attempted to burn the bloody thing. He tried all manner of flame — Incendio, Fire Rope, even a Muggle Bic lighter, for fuck’s sake — and came this close to casting Fiendfyre. And yet, the jumper remained unscorched, unscathed, and perfectly awful. He had to admit, he was impressed with the strength of the protection spells Mrs. Weasley had infused in the yarn. It was quite remarkable.
He hated it with his whole heart.
Harry hums, eyes still narrowed, and disappears to only reappear moments later with the offensive thing clutched in his hands. Draco groans inwardly.
“I found it!” Harry beams. “Strange, it was under the bed hidden with a cloaking spell.” He pulls it on and ruffles his hair.
Draco stares at the lint clinging to Harry’s elbow, at the green "H" mocking him. “Brilliant,” he says flatly.
“Well, I’m off for lunch with Pans.” Harry checks his reflection in the mirror, pausing when he notices a long strand of yarn dangling at the armpit. “Fuck! There’s a snag!” He cuts his gaze to Draco.
Draco lifts his hands. “What? I didn’t do anything to it!”
It’s another half-truth.
In his fury over his failed arson attempts he had kicked the jumper through the flat, stomping on it for good measure. A nail not quite flush with the floorboards had snagged the loops and when Draco retrieved it, the stitches came unraveled.
“I think you had more to do with this than you’re letting on,” Harry says, frowning. He takes off the sweater savagely, scowl firmly in place as he stomps away.
Draco deflates, a pang twinging his heart. He really hadn’t intended to destroy the jumper. The Incendio was initially aimed at a large spider crawling across the bedroom floor. The jumper merely got caught in the crossfire, and survived unscathed. Draco had tried the other spells out of curiosity, and if the thing perished in the name of science, more's the pity.
The snag was truly an accident.
Draco bites the inside of his mouth to keep from grinning.
Draco L. Malfoy: 1; Weasley Jumper: 1
* * *
It’s a cold autumn morning when Draco shuffles into the kitchen and sees The Weasley Jumper draped over a kitchen chair.
Draco has had a week’s respite from the knitted menace, a weeks-long basking in the beauty of a lovely creamy fisherman’s jumper Harry was forced to wear while Mrs Weasley worked on repairs.
He pokes the awful thing, dismissing its softness, and gives it a hiss before setting the Muggle coffee machine to percolate. The morning chill creeps beneath his dressing gown, and he shivers waiting for his cup to fill, pointedly ignoring the jumper’s warm-looking stitches.
He’s stirring in the milk and sugar when he notices a lumpy, squishy package on the table. Only once his cup, spoon, and napkin are aligned and properly arranged at the table, does he peer at the wrapping. Tape completely encompasses what appears to be old parchment covered with chicken-scratch lettering. Draco frowns.
“Morning, love,” Harry says, yawning and scratching his belly as he comes into the kitchen. He pecks Draco on the cheek and shivers. “Fuck, it’s cold.”
Draco watches him pull on the jumper, heart aching at his bare legs and adorably messy hair.
“This package is for you,” Harry says, pushing the lump in front of Draco. “From Mrs Weasley.”
Draco’s heart lurches, the traitor. “The wrapping is ridiculous.”
Harry grins. “My old History of Magic homework.” He nudges it closer to Draco.
“You didn’t even get good marks.” Draco sniffs. “And, thank you, I hate it.”
“You haven’t even opened it!” Harry admonishes, waving his hand. The wrapping tears and out spills a Weasley Jumper. Draco’s breath stalls. It’s royal blue and the loops are fat and plush. Harry holds it up and the “D” stitched on the front is fashioned out of olive green snakes. “I told her how fetching you look in blue.”
“It’s horrendous,” Draco says, his throat burning.
Harry sighs dramatically. “I guess I’ll just send it back, then— ”
“No!” Draco yelps. The jumper is in his hands before he realizes he’s summoned it. “You’ll pry this jumper out of my cold, dead hands. I don’t care how ugly it is.”
Harry’s lips twitch. “It’s got Mrs Weasley’s special warming spell that syncs with your magical signature.” He takes the monstrosity and shoves it over Draco’s head. Draco’s head pops out, and Harry kisses him tender and sweet. “I’ll tell her you like it.”
“I don’t like it,” Draco grouses.
The jumper is perfectly warm and the sleeves are exactly too long. Draco curls the tips of his fingers and fists the sleeves tightly, burying his nose in its spicy scent.
Draco L. Malfoy may know clothes. He may know that braces are never to be worn with belts and that jackets are never to be fully buttoned unless they are double-breasted.
But he’s never been more happy than to concede victory to an ugly jumper.
A tear leaks out of his eye and is immediately absorbed in the fluffy yarn.
The jumper hugs him closer.
Draco L. Malfoy: 1; Weasley Jumper: 1001