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The first time that Draco noticed, they were in the Eighth Year common room. Harry Potter was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire, and his trousers had ridden up just enough to show a couple of inches of his socks—or, to be more specific, his horrible, brightly colored, mismatched socks. From what Draco could tell, one was a rather violent shade of orange, while the other seemed to be vertically striped in yellow and blue. On anyone else, he would have assumed that it was intentional, but Potter’s fashion sense had always been a lost cause. He probably just didn’t care enough to bother pairing them. Draco promptly decided to put the whole thing out of his mind—what did he care about Potter’s footwear, anyway?
—
The second time was several weeks later, in Charms. People were so obsessed with Potter after the war that it wasn’t honestly all that surprising when someone “accidentally” vanished his uniform. Surprise or no, though, Draco had to admit that Potter’s nearly-nude body was rather eye-catching. From his seat in the very back of the room, he allowed himself the guilty pleasure of a slow perusal of all that smooth, pale skin, interrupted only by plain black boxer briefs and a pair of socks. Or, rather, two socks that were very much not a pair, one being a dizzying pattern of abstract neon shapes and the other a dark green dotted with little owls that was at least an inch longer than the other. A snort of laughter from Pansy, who was seated to his left, effectively snapped Draco back to reality so that he could glare at her. “I was only wondering why he’s wearing such hideous socks,” he defended.
“Sure you were,” she answered patronizingly.
“I was!” he insisted. “He’s a grown man, it’s pathetic that he can’t even match his own clothes.”
Pansy shrugged. “Maybe it’s laundry day.” In front of them, the class was still in chaos, with a bright red Potter being hastily wrapped in Weasley’s cloak, which was rather too long for him, effectively hiding his ankles from view once more.
—
The third time was after their graduation ceremony. It was an unseasonably hot day, and by some sort of unspoken agreement, almost everyone was stripping down to their skivvies and diving into the bracing cold of the lake. It was a complete coincidence that Draco just happened to be looking in Potter’s direction as he undressed, of course, but as he was, he couldn’t help but notice yet another non-pair of ugly-as-sin socks: red and black tartan on one foot, rainbow print on the other. When Draco’s gaze moved back upward, he realized with a humiliating jolt that Potter was watching him, as well. When their eyes met, Draco hastily looked away, ignoring Pansy and Blaise snickering beside him. “It’s just the socks,” he muttered defensively. “Why can’t the git just match his stupid socks like a normal person?”
“Why don’t you go ask him?” Pansy suggested with a Cheshire Cat grin.
Draco scoffed and pointedly did no such thing.
—
The fourth through tenth times happened in the locker rooms of the Ministry after they wrapped up the sparring classes that made up one of many aspects of their first year of Auror training. Stripes, polka dots, or checks; cats, bicycles, or strawberries; thick or thin; tall or short; the only pattern that Draco could find was that they be as different from one another as possible. The eleventh time—blue roses against a purple background on the left, silver and black spiderwebs on the right—finally pushed him over the edge.
“For Merlin’s sake, Potter, why can you not, for a single day, wear a pair of socks that actually match? I know you’re a certified fashion disaster, but you can’t possibly be so oblivious that you think that those—” and here, he gestured at Harry’s still-stockinged feet, “even remotely go together.”
To Draco’s surprise, Potter’s face didn’t default to the scowl he had been expecting. Instead, it went sad, and then blank. “It’s in memory of a friend,” he said shortly. Efficiently stripping the remainder of his clothes off, he stepped into a shower, turning his back and ignoring Draco completely. A knot of regret settled into Draco’s stomach, and he finished his own post-exercise routine without a word.
—
The 50th or so time—Draco had lost count, eventually—happened on their third date. They were curled together on Harry’s bed, sweaty, breathless, and still partially clothed, having been too impatient to bother getting completely naked before they could get their hands and mouths on each other. Letting his gaze travel down their entwined legs (which they had, in fact, managed to undress), Draco looked at their still-socked feet, which contrasted markedly with each other: Draco in plain, black dress socks and Harry sporting one sock that had a large cat’s head printed across the toes and one featuring Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Draco ran his own foot lightly across Harry’s.
“Will you tell me who they’re for?” he asked quietly.
After a few moments of silence, during which Draco just had time to panic that asking had been a huge overstep, Harry answered, his voice soft. “His name was Dobby. He was a house elf.”
“I think I remember Dobby.” Draco furrowed his brow. “He was one of ours, wasn’t he? He sometimes took care of me as a child. He would read me stories. He disappeared, though, at some point.”
“I freed him.”
There was obviously more story there, but Draco decided that it could hold for another day. Instead, he asked, “How did he die?”
“Saving my life. Not long after you did the same, actually.” Harry paused, and Draco pretended not to notice the hand that came up to wipe his eyes. “Bellatrix killed him.”
“I’m sorry,” Draco said, meaning it.
“Me, too.” Wrapping an arm around Draco, Harry pulled him closer.
—
On their next date, Draco’s socks didn’t match, either.