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Harry was never the observant type, at least not to any one who knew him. They could describe him as many things, such as courageous, kind, loving, but never observant. In fact, Harry could be described as oblivious, never really knowing the world around him unless it was all painfully painted in front of his face.
However, when it came to Draco Malfoy, Harry couldn't help but notice him. The way the man walked so gracefully into the Auror Office, as if he owned the place. His aura was always pure white, and he carried himself with this air of elegance that made Harry instantly straighten his back, sitting up in his office chair. His hair was its usual platinum but now grown out and sleeked into a loose braid. Harry was used to seeing Malfoy wear all sorts of hairstyles nowadays, but somehow they still managed to catch his eye every time. And his eyes, oh, Harry could go on about those pale, silvery grey eyes and how they made his heart skip two beats every time they focused in on him, narrowed and sharp.
But the one thing he always noticed about Draco Malfoy, a twenty-three-year-old man, was his clothes. Not his black trousers, or his emerald green button-up hidden under his black Auror robes, but his socks. Merlin, did his socks bother Harry to no avail.
Harry wouldn’t have even noticed them if it weren’t for one fateful mission, where he ended up sandwiched with Malfoy inside of a stuffy closet. It was not his best moment and he didn't even remember how they ended up sitting down, hugging their knees. But they did, and that’s when Harry’s eyes traveled down to the man’s legs. He was wearing mismatched socks. Not even the same colour, but a dainty white sock on his left leg, and a navy-blue sock on his right. Not to mention that the navy-blue one was covered in little golden snitches, whereas the white was plain.
Some would have taken this moment romantically, maybe even flirted a bit. Their legs were touching, and Harry could feel Malfoy taking deep breaths in the confined space, eating up all of the oxygen. However, at this moment, Harry could not take his eyes off of the man’s mismatched socks which he could only see because the man’s trousers had rolled up slightly.
He could feel Malfoy’s piercing gaze on him, and he couldn’t help but blurt, “Your socks.” His face flushed immediately as he looked up to find Malfoy’s eyebrow raised, his lips parted in utter confusion.
“My socks?” he responded, looking down at his own mismatched socks, then looking back at Harry, even more lost than before.
“Er, yeah. Your socks.” Harry said again, a little more confident. Though, that did nothing to help the blond understand why the hell Harry was bringing up his socks in the middle of a mission, let alone one where they were stuck in a closet together — alone.
“I’m sorry? Potter, why are we talking about my socks right now?”
“They’re mismatched,” Harry said plainly, as if talking about another man’s socks was the most normal thing in the world, so normal that Malfoy should automatically know why Harry would be concerned with something so trivial. The blond just stared at him, partly flabbergasted at Harry’s audacity, and still partly unsurprised. Unsurprised because it was Harry, an idiot whose idiocy knew no bounds, even in closets.
“Again, why is that relevant right now? There is quite literally a dragon breathing down the doors of this bloody closet as we wait for the dragon tamers, and you’re concerned with my socks. You clearly need to sort your priorities, you pillock.” Oh, right. Harry remembered. They were on a mission that involved dragons and it so happened that Harry got a little too close and now they were in a closet, in a little abandoned castle with a dragon huffing and puffing about, looking for them.
“They’re mismatched, Malfoy.”
“I know that, Potter. Why do you care about my socks not matching?” Malfoy’s voice was calm, a little too calm for Harry’s liking. Why couldn’t the man see what was wrong? Why did Harry have to pitifully point it out to someone who was always too witty for their own good?
“I don’t, but why?” Harry definitely didn’t care. Why would he care about Malfoy’s socks not matching? He was merely curious, and a little disturbed. Maybe more than a little. He was actually very perturbed by this, and even more so that Malfoy didn’t seem bothered at all.
“Why are my socks mismatched?” The blond asked incredulously, his eyebrows knitted together in a way that they could nearly come together and form a unibrow. He was honestly beyond this conversation, so beyond it that his mind didn’t comprehend it. Maybe he was too smart or clever to understand Harry’s rambling nonsense. Or, maybe he was in a different dimension, a different plane of existence where his socks not matching could mean the end of the world for them as they know it. Maybe his mismatched socks would cause a Third Wizarding War, or maybe his socks being mismatched was a crime so devastatingly appalling that it would land him in Azakaban for the remainder of his life. So Malfoy looked around them and nope, they were still in the same closet, on the same planet, in the same dimension. He looked at his pocket watch and only two minutes had passed. Everything was the same and yet Harry was on some different type of bullshit.
“Yeah.” The brunette just stared at him, awaiting a response, blinking innocently at Malfoy. Harry himself does not see what the problem, aside from the socks, is. The socks not matching is a crime, especially for someone like Malfoy, who values order and the utmost sophistication. Someone like Malfoy would not be caught dead wearing socks that do not match, and yet here they were. And Malfoy was, indeed, wearing socks that did not match themselves, or even his entire outfit. He was wearing a green button-up for Godric’s sake! If they were white socks, Harry would not have cared, or even if they differed slightly in colour, but no. He just had to wear that navy-blue sock with golden snitches.
Harry was not a fashionista, or even someone who knew a thing about fashion, but he knew Malfoy. He knew Malfoy so well that he couldn’t fathom why it wasn’t practically killing the man to be caught wearing such a distasteful thing. He himself also felt like he was in an alternate dimension, one where Malfoy was not a posh and stubborn prick, one where Malfoy wore mismatched socks without a care in the world because he did not care for fashion. But also nope. He was also still on the same planet, in the same dimension, in a bloody closet with the same snobby man who made his life miserable for, well, forever. He was still the same person wearing the most expensive trousers Harry had ever seen. And a pair of ugly, mismatched socks.
And that was how Harry began to notice Malfoy’s socks everywhere. He noticed them in the office, when they all went for drinks at the pub, even when they were in the middle of missions. Harry couldn’t help but notice the mismatched socks. He hoped, even begged Circe, that it was a singular incident, that Malfoy had been in a rush that day. But no, his socks never matched. Ever. Sometimes one was red and the other was plaid, and sometimes one was black and the other had cute little pink polka-dots. No matter the day or the hour, Malfoy’s socks didn’t match, and even more pathetically, Harry noticed. Every. Single. Time.
Harry got so tired of noticing. It felt like a sick joke, where Malfoy wore mismatched socks to rile Harry up, like another challenge of theirs. One where Malfoy put aside his own tastes to piss Harry off, and maybe Harry would believe that if it didn’t sound so ridiculous — even for an idiot like him. Even if it was a sickeningly childish challenge, Harry didn’t feel like he was winning or losing anything but precious time wasted on ugly things. He just wanted order. He wanted things to go back to normal. He wanted not to notice. He wanted Malfoy to wear matching socks. He wanted — needed Malfoy to stop.
It finally came to halt one afternoon when Harry just couldn’t take it anymore. He groaned and slouched in his chair as he watched Malfoy walk by, one sock was lime green and the other was a pale blue. It looked horrible, and Harry could barely see them peeking from the bottom of Malfoy’s trousers, but he still could and that was enough to dampen his mood. His dastardly choice of colours nearly made Harry pull his own hair out, but not before he could notice Ron looking at him oddly.
“What’s up with you looking at Malfoy like he offended your entire bloodline, mate? Lover’s quarrel?” the redhead teased, his thumb pointing back towards the blond, who seemed to be in a very heated argument with Neville Longbottom about Merlin knows what. Probably about Neville planning to quit and take up a position at Hogwarts, not that Harry really cared when those socks were burning holes into his eye sockets.
“What? No. Look at his socks, mate. They’re horrific.” Ron’s head whipped behind him, also noticing the bits of colour peeking through Malfoy’s pants. He let out a bark of laughter before Harry quickly grabbed his face, pulling it back around and shushing him before the men behind them turned around.
“Are you mad?” he hissed and Ron couldn’t help but wheeze, toppling over in his chair with his hands clasped over his mouth.
“I — Oh, Harry —” He roared, taking deep breaths, trying and failing to compose himself. Every time he tried to talk he just kept sniggering, leaving an agitated Harry looking at him with crossed arms. “Harry,” He finally croaked, “Why the hell are you looking at the poor bloke’s socks? Yes, Merlin knows they’re quite ugly, but who cares? Maybe he was in a rush.”
“No, Ron. You’re not understanding. They never match. His socks never match. It’s literally the most infuriating thing ever.” Harry said in a hushed voice, but the aggressiveness in his tone was unmistakable.
Ron took one look at Harry before howling once more with laughter. He could not believe his ears. By this point, Malfoy and Neville, as well as likely the entire office, was watching Ron laugh like he had never laughed in his life. It was a sight. And even more so when Harry’s face turned redder than Ron’s own hair, or even Ron’s face, which was also red from laughing so hard. He held one hand over his stomach and the other dabbed at his eyes which swelled with tears.
“Mate, are you hearing yourself talk? Not only are you obsessed with the man, but also his socks?”
“I’m not obsessed with him or his socks. It’s just an observation, one I wish I hadn’t made because now I can’t unsee it.”
“Why don’t you just ask him why they don’t match?” Ron suggested, mentally making a note of how stupid the entire conversation was, and just how badly whipped Harry was for the blond. So whipped that he was obsessed with the man’s socks, and too far up his own arse to actually just admit that he liked him and wanted to snog him senseless.
“Every time I try to, I can’t find the words and he just looks at me like I’m an idiot. Like, you’re the one wearing that, and I’m the idiot? He wasn’t even bothered when I first brought it up either, just brushed it off. It’s mental.” Harry voiced, his hands moving rapidly as he talked, becoming increasingly more irritated as he remembered the interaction in the closet.
Ron was just grinning like a madman, and he just reassured Harry that they would get to the bottom of it. And get to the bottom of it they did.
On Friday night, Harry’s lot, which included Malfoy's, all sat together in their usual booth at the pub. Harry had noticed Malfoy’s socks the moment he had walked in, one was wine red which actually matched his black button up, but he ruined the whole thing by wearing a beige sock. They weren’t even noticeable, they never were, but Harry could always tell, especially when they peeked through when the man walked or sat down. Harry scowled and Ron looked at him, lips pursed to keep himself from cackling. Hermione was there too obviously, looking between the two of them like they had grown multiple heads.
Conversation flowed as well as drinks, and everyone had loosened up, except Harry, whose face was focused on the salt and pepper shakers on the table. “What's up with you? You look a bit constipated, my guy.” Ginny said, wrapping her arm around his shoulder. Yeah, that was his ex-girlfriend, alright, now his best-friend who didn’t know when to leave well enough alone.
“Yeah, Potter. You’ve barely had anything to drink and usually you’re the one who's most excited about Pub Night Fridays.” Blaise chimed in. The name was stupid, but Harry and Ron came up with it so who’s really surprised. No one was. Pub Night Fridays was such a regular occurrence that everyone had eventually adopted the name, but right now, everyone had honed in on a grouchy Harry.
“Harry, you’ve been so irritable lately, we’re all kind of worried about you.” Hermione’s voice was ridden with affection, and Harry looked up to find all of his friends looking at him a bit concerned, except Ron, whose cheeks had puffed up and was on the verge of bursting.
“Yeah, mate, why don’t you tell the table why you’re so upset?” Ron teased and Harry could only muster a glare in response. The redhead snickered, his head hitting the table to stop himself from truly sounding like he’d lost his mind.
“I’m not upset. Just tired,” he muttered, and even though no one believed him, they all knew better than to pry. So they moved on and talked about other meaningless things, mindless chatter as Harry looked down at his own feet. He was wearing matching black socks. If Harry could do it, why couldn’t Malfoy?
Watching Harry look down at his own socks pathetically was too much for Ron. So he got to the bottom of it like he had promised. “Malfoy, mate. How come you never wear matching socks?” The redhead asked, and the table had stopped talking. They all looked at Ron like he was nothing but a numpty, a dolt who had finally and truly gone mad.
Malfoy looked between Ron and Harry, who had finally looked up from his own shoes to look at Ron, silently grateful that the man had asked Harry’s burning question. “What’s it to you, Weasley?” He smirked, a devilish one that made Harry nearly cast an Avada Kedavra on himself and the rest of the people at the table. But then Harry noticed it, a falter and then a swift recovery. Now his curiosity was tenfold.
“Just curious. So do tell, why does the Great Draco Malfoy wear mismatched socks?” Ron’s face rested on his palms and it seemed like everyone at the table was trying to take a peek at Malfoy’s socks, except for Pansy, Blaise, and Theodore, who all looked just about ready to laugh along with Ron.
“Yes, Draco, just tell them why you don’t wear matching socks.”
The blond sighed, his shoulders deflated. “I don’t have any matching pairs,” he admitted, and everyone looked at him, bewildered.
“You don’t what?” Harry pouted, out of all the reasons he had conjured up in his head, this was not one of them. Draco Malfoy, the Heir to the Malfoy family, didn’t own a single pair of matching socks? That sounded ridiculous, preposterous even. Harry’s mouth had fallen open in disbelief, his own eyes narrowed and trying to process how the hell that was even possible.
“I don’t own any matching pairs of socks,” he repeated, a little firmer this time. The rest of the table was a bit confused for multiple reasons. 1) Why were they talking about Draco Malfoy’s mismatched socks? 2) Why did Ron and Harry even care about Draco Malfoy’s mismatched socks? 3) Why were they all invested, despite the ridiculousness of the entire thing, in the fact that Draco Malfoy didn’t own a single pair of matching socks? And lastly, 4) why didn’t the man own a single pair of matching socks?!
“Okay we got that, but why do you not? I mean, aren’t you bloody rich? And, when you buy socks, they usually come with two, not one.” Ginny said, her head tilting to the side. When Malfoy failed to respond, Pansy decided to tell the tale.
“Well since he’s too modest, or proud, I'm not entirely sure, I will admit it for him. Draco, my sweet little Dray, is really such a kind boy. My little wannabe Gryffindor,” she drawled, unfazed by his attempt to kick her under the table. She refused to be silenced. “He, upon finding out about Granger’s little organisation for house elves, S.P.I.T, right?”
“S.P.E.W” Hermione corrected, though it likely fell on deaf ears.
“Right, details, darling. Anyways, due to that and Draco’s inability to accept that the world has forgiven him for his terrible deeds, he decided to free all of the house elves at Malfoy Manor by giving them all each a sock. And he ended up with no pairs left, just one sock of each. Actually, he even lost entire pairs due to how many elves he freed. Really quite a noble, although, idiotic thing for him to do.”
Malfoy’s cheeks turned pink, and he covered his face with his hands. Harry was so lost and beyond confused. This entire time he thought, well he didn’t exactly know what he thought, but it really couldn’t have been this. Malfoy freed all of his house elves because of some organisation that Hermione had been developing since their Hogwarts years?
Hermione seemed to process the entire ordeal a whole lot faster than the rest of them, and her eyes started to sparkle. “Is that true, Draco? You freed all of your house elves in support of S.P.E.W?”
Malfoy groaned, “No, Granger. I don’t support this nonsense, I simply wanted to annoy Mother and Father. That is all. The elves are now being paid, though, much to their dismay.” He was being modest by lying. Or prideful, Harry also couldn’t tell. He was being modest by downplaying his actions, but also too prideful to admit that he had even done it out of kindness or interest in the first place. It didn’t matter because he was lying. Harry knew he was lying because of the way he always tucked his hair behind his ear when he lied. Not about the elves, but about his own intentions.
“Hm, Draco, if you don’t mind me asking, why haven’t you just bought new pairs?” Luna, who had been quiet most of the night, staring out of the window, had finally spoken up. Everyone turned to look back at Malfoy, wondering the exact same thing. The Malfoy accounts had been unfrozen ages ago, and besides, Malfoy earned his own money as an Auror, so why didn’t he buy himself new socks?
“I guess I had just forgotten. I’ve gotten so used to it by now that it’s second nature.” Harry frowned. He didn’t like that answer at all but he still felt satisfied now knowing the answer to the question that had been plaguing him for weeks.
“Well, that’s another case closed, everyone. The Great Draco Malfoy wears mismatched socks because he freed all of his house elves and no longer has a pair left. He has even forgotten to buy new ones! This was definitely an entertaining Pub Night Friday!” Ron exclaimed, raising his glass of firewhisky as the others followed suit. The night ended in lighthearted laughs and warm smiles at the thought of Draco Malfoy being a kind person who did nice things. Though, this was only the beginning of Harry’s plan.
He laid in bed later that night, a little buzzed but nothing compared to the thought of Draco Malfoy giving his elves socks. It reminded Harry of when he had freed Dobby from the Malfoy’s, but this was Draco Malfoy, someone who had never shown an ounce of kindness towards elves and held bigoted views until his adult life.
A warm feeling settled in Harry’s stomach, one he recognized long ago, but refused to admit aloud to anyone willing to listen. He fancied Malfoy, had for awhile now, but knowing Malfoy was capable of a change so great and lovely filled Harry to the brim with even more love for the blond, if that was possible. He had noticed all of the little changes in Malfoy’s attitude, from bringing Harry home after a long day at the office, to tucking him into bed, to cooking and baking for his friends often, and even taking care of them when they were ill. Harry noticed and yet all he cared about were those stupid socks. It was simply unbelievable. He had let himself get distracted when he could have been paying more attention to all of the kind things Malfoy did for them all on the daily, instead of focusing on silly things like challenges and socks. Harry was practically about to float, or apparate to the man and plant a huge, wet kiss on his lips.
But instead, the wheels in his brain started turning and the next day, he found himself in Hogsmeade, strolling into Gladrags Wizardwear. The shop was nothing new to him and usually he would get distracted but today he had tunnel-vision, focused solely on his latest mission: Get Draco Malfoy new socks. The shopkeeper looked up as the bells chimed, “Hello, welcome to Gladrags, come to look for anything in particular?”
Harry shook his head, “Er, not really, just socks. I need pairs of socks, normal ones. I’ll buy your whole stock of socks.” He probably sounded loony so he made sure to add, “It’s for a friend, he said he had none because he freed all of his house elves.” Now he’d really done it. He just had to keep opening his mouth. His ears turned pink but the shopkeeper just smiled warmly at him.
“I’m sure we can make that work. The whole stock? We could just find him a pair in particular, one that cleans itself and stays in pristine condition even through the worst wear.”
“I really don’t mind buying all of them, he deserves more than socks to be honest.”
“Mr. Potter, I would not like to run out of stock of socks, so let's compromise on six pairs of self-cleaning socks, yeah?” The shopkeeper’s eyes twitched a bit but the smile didn’t leave her face.
A bit intimidated, Harry nodded and they began to pick out the socks that he’d gift to Malfoy for his birthday, which coincidentally was a week away. Harry definitely didn’t plan the entire pub conversation with Ron to find out the reason why Malfoy wore mismatched socks as well as to find out what to give him for his birthday, and he definitely didn’t call dibs on the sock-giving at the brunch he had with his friends that noon. He definitely did no such thing. And he was definitely not grinning ear-to-ear when he left Gladrags Wizardwear that afternoon.
A week later, the whole lot sat in one of the parlour rooms at Malfoy Manor, enjoying Malfoy’s birthday with him. It was beautifully decorated by Narcissa, who was chatting it up with Andromeda as Teddy rolled around on the carpet beneath them. Harry’s eyes couldn’t help but linger on Malfoy, who looked absolutely breathtaking.
His hair was loose, flowing freely and beautifully. It was shiny, silky, and inviting. Harry wanted to just run his fingers through it. His eyes trailed down the rest of Malfoy’s lean body, taking in the ravishing sight. Malfoy wore a simple white polo, and black trousers – nothing special but to Harry, Malfoy was the most beautiful man he had ever laid eyes on. Malfoy met his gaze and instead of the usual sneer, a small smile was plastered on his pink lips.
A smile. That one was enough to send Harry daydreaming of soft kisses, intertwined hands, and surprisingly, matching socks. Speaking of socks, he took one look at Malfoy’s mismatched ones and he didn’t wince, or groan, or even care. After today, things would be different and Harry could put his efforts into something else, something like making Draco Malfoy fall head over heels for him.
Harry twitched with excitement as he watched the now twenty-four-year-old man open up his gifts. Pansy had gifted him a very expensive pendant, likely worth hundreds of galleons. Blaise had given him a box full of condoms, winking as it was nothing but a gag gift, even though Malfoy flustered regardless and the rest of the room chuckled. Hermione had given him a few books on Muggle medicine, something Malfoy had picked up as a hobby. Ron had given him a box of sweets since everyone knew Malfoy had the biggest sweet tooth known to wizardkind. Theodore had given him a limited edition potions book, one that Malfoy had been obsessively looking for. After a few more gifts were opened, it was time for Harry’s.
Malfoy was a bit surprised when he found two boxes from Harry. But nevertheless, he ripped the bigger one and immediately Harry could tell he had made the right choice. “Potter, you did not get me socks,” Malfoy rolled his eyes, trying to act annoyed, but the tiny smile tugging at his lips said otherwise. Harry had given him six pairs of perfectly matched socks. One was white, another was black, two perfectly practical choices. The next was a dark emerald green, with golden snitches on it. It matched Malfoy’s entire aesthetic a bit better than the navy-blue ones if Harry said so himself. One was plaid, coloured wine red, dark green, and white. Another was a baby pink, he picked it because he was simply running out of time. But the last pair Malfoy pulled out of the box was Harry’s favourite, a pair of red socks, with yellow lightning bolts on them. The entire room snorted when they saw them, and Malfoy himself just gaped at Harry. “Thank you, for the socks, though I will never wear these, that’s for sure. Too Potter-y for my liking,” he said as he gently folded them and put them back in the box. All six pairs. Even the Potter-y ones.
Harry hummed and urged him to open the next gift, satisfied but not as satisfied as he was about to be. Malfoy gasped as he pulled out the sleek silver pocket watch from the box, the initials D.M engraved onto it along with the words, ‘I notice everything about you’ on it.
Malfoy’s pocket watch had been left behind somewhere during one of their missions, likely the same one when Harry had first noticed Malfoy’s unpleasant choice of socks, but that hadn’t stopped Harry from noticing the blond’s worried look as he dug into his pockets to find nothing there. Malfoy held the pocket watch to his chest before pulling Harry into an embrace that lasted a bit too long to even be considered friendly, though no one dared mention that to the oblivious idiots who were convinced the other didn’t have feelings for them; they let them have this moment, their moment. Harry froze, his arms tensely wrapped around the other man. His own daydreams did not compare to the real thing, to smelling Malfoy’s scent, to feeling his soft hair touching the side of his neck, it made Harry feel things he had never felt in his entire life.
He felt like he was on cloud nine, like everyone in the room had disappeared and it was just him and Malfoy, arms wrapped around one another like it was their last day on Earth. Draco Lucius Malfoy, the same man who often had to push himself to even shake hands with people – was hugging him. Full chest contact. Face in his neck. Harry James Potter. Harry was hugging Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Was he still breathing? Was he imagining this entire thing? Was Draco sniffing him? Was he sniffing Draco?
“Oh my goodness, Potter, thank you. This is such a nice gift, and it looks quite expensive too, you really didn’t have too. And the socks? Dear Salazar, this is too much even for me,” the blond gushed as he nuzzled further into Harry’s neck. Harry quickly short-circuited, insisting that the man just take the gift and that it was ‘not a big deal’ while laughing nervously like a teenage girl with a crush.
Once they finally peeled away from one another, Harry could only offer a cheeky grin. “Call me Harry,” He said, and the blond’s face turned a slight hint of red.
“Never, Potter.” He grumbled, turning his head to the side in the most adorable, snobby way Harry had ever seen.
“C’mon Draco,” The name sounded so right coming from Harry’s lips that Malfoy — Well, Draco, also blue-screened, lost track of his entire thoughts with the sound of his name coming from Harry Potter’s lips. He quickly cleared his throat to help the knot of butterflies stuck churning and twisting around in his guts.
“You will never convince me to call you by your first name. It sounds so, ugh.” The rest of the room laughed as Draco’s face morphed into one of pure disgust at the thought of referring to Harry as anything other than his surname.
“We are friends and I’ve gifted you socks and a very expensive pocket watch yet you refuse to call me by my name?”
“Precisely.” Draco responded, taking his seat on the loveseat next to Andromeda. Harry just kept smiling like a lovesick fool through the rest of the birthday party. He would take what he could get and right now, he was happy knowing that Draco had liked his gift, and that he was finally going to stop wearing those silly little mismatched socks.