A/N: I've been slightly obsessed with Harry/Draco fics recently. Okay, I'm lying. It's become my life. So, when I was making the bed at a friend's house and found my socks tangled in the sheets, my brain automatically thinks Harry and Draco and sheets and nothing else. Then, my brain pretty much turns to goo.

Hope you all like this, since it is my first time writing slash. I really hope I do my current favorite pairing justice, even if I am on the fence about the story as a whole.

Enjoy and review

Disclaimer: I own nothing

It hadn't been all that strange of a morning until a couple of minutes after he woke up. You see, Harry Potter had gotten used to the feeling of waking up naked, since he realized long ago that he liked the feel of his satin sheets on his bare skin. Also, the raging headache wasn't anything to be concerned about either, since he knew it was Saturday, which most likely meant that he got completely wasted the night before. Oh how he loved his job at the Ministry, that standard Monday to Friday, nine to five desk job. Beats having to fight dark wizards who have been after him since he was young enough to wet his pants, thank god those days have been over for quite some time now. Both the wetting of the pants and fighting psychotic wizards with nothing better to do than attack children and want to rid the world of people he thought were less than him. You would think he would have heard of Hitler at some point in his life.

So, all in all, his morning didn't begin as anything that should have concerned him. However, after pulling back the blankets and kicking his feet over the side of the bed, his bleary eyes noticed something out of place, lying amongst the sheets. Harry had stretched, bringing his arms over his head, hands clasped together while his elbows popped straight from their bent position, and as he turned his neck he saw them. Socks. Dark green socks lying haphazardly in the center of his bed. Socks that he knew weren't his own.

It wasn't that he necessarily disliked the color green. It would be hard to look in the mirror everyday and see something you hated looking back at you. It was just that he never really got the chance to purchase something in that color.

All of the clothing he ever received from Dudley were so worn out that they looked a dull gray by the time Harry wore them, despite the original coloration of the fabric. He didn't really complain, thinking he'd never be able to afford new clothing and had always been told he didn't deserve anything new, so the drabs of cloth he received was more than he could ask for. At least they didn't send him around naked, or in a loin cloth.

Then, when he had the money to actually buy something on his own, he was a Gryffindor and it'd be like blasphemy if he bought anything that represented Slytherin house. Harry knew it was stupid and that whatever house you were sorted into shouldn't dictate the colors of your wardrobe, but he was an impressionable kid and peer pressure really does have an influence on one's life at that age.

Once graduation came along and houses didn't matter anymore, it was habit that stopped him from browsing through racks that had green in it. Habit and that god awful memory. Harry had received a green Weasley sweater one Christmas, and although he loved it because it was from Molly, the green seemed a bit too much in conjunction with his eyes. Also, when Ginny ran her hand down his chest and told him how absolutely amazing he looked in it; he swore he'd never wear the color again.

Shuddering at the memory, Harry reached over and grabbed his glasses from the small table next to his bed. Now that the image of the socks was crisper than a green blur, he grabbed them and brought them to his face, studying them. They definitely weren't his. Besides never needing that particular color in coordination with an outfit before, he knew he would never spend the money that these must have cost. Although the tiny dragon near the top of each that spouted fire every once and a while fascinated him a bit, he still wondered how they got into his bed.

Harry was so engrossed in his inspection of the mysterious socks that he didn't hear the person walking down the hall or stop in the doorway. However, "Would you like some coffee?" caught his attention and his head snapped up at the sound.

Pale feet, crossed at the ankles, toes digging into Harry's plush cream colored carpet was the first thing Harry saw, followed by equally pale but muscled legs. Harry's eyes traveled north, finding black boxers, in complete contrast to the color of the skin, which rode low enough that Harry noticed the hip bones jutting out over the top. He noticed a fine line of blonde hair, almost golden in the sunlight pouring in through the window, went from the navel to the top of the boxers, most likely continuing further down. His eyes then rested on a tone chest, though as pale as the rest of the body, covered by an open maroon button down shirt, Harry's maroon shirt that he knew he wore the night before. Finally making their way up to the top, Harry's eyes rested on the face of Draco Malfoy, sipping innocently from one coffee mug while holding another in the other hand, gray eyes glinting slightly in amusement.

The shock that should have come at realizing that one's childhood enemy was standing half naked in their doorway never came. Because at that moment, the night before flashed through Harry's mind. He remembered stopping at that new bar with a couple of friends and coworkers after work the day before. There was a lot of alcohol and loud music. And, of course, Draco across the room.

He'd be lying to himself if he said he still hated the ex-Slytherin. Hell, he'd be lying if he said he hated him while he was still a Slytherin. There was always something about the blonde that intrigued Harry, and when he realized he swung the other way, after a disastrous quasi-relationship with Ginny, Draco intrigued Harry even more.

There wasn't really one specific thing about Draco. It was kind of a culmination of a bunch of things. Death Eater's son, quidditch opponent, mortal enemy, bitter rival, ridiculously attractive: all the normal things that added up to an infatuation that lasted years.

So, seeing Draco with his own friends, drinking and having fun while completely ignoring Harry, like he did in their seventh year, and all the years following, even though they worked on the same floor at the Ministry, didn't really bother Harry. He had grown accustomed to the fact that he'd never have a chance with Draco, and he was okay with it, since he figured Draco would never find out about his fascination with him.

Harry was definitely past the point of a bit tipsy by the time one of Draco's friends passed by Harry's table, therefore the details were a little fuzzy. There may have been some split alcohol, rude comments and a little shoving before the two groups became one and a shouting match began. Somehow, Harry couldn't exactly remember, he became face to face with Draco and the insults began flying.

Somewhere along the line, Harry attributes it to the copious amounts of alcohol he ingested, the insults developed into playful banter and outright flirting. He would have been embarrassed, if he wasn't so trashed, and he hadn't just found out that his unrequited feelings weren't so unrequited.

He really should invest in a pensieve so he could go back and see how that conversation progressed.

It was pretty obvious that Draco was drunk as well, because he began petting Harry, explaining his obsession with wanting to make his hair even messier and unkempt than it naturally is. Harry didn't mind, enjoying the feel of Draco's hands in his hair, nails scratching his scalp, until Blaise spoke and pulled Draco's hands away.

"Merlin Draco, I told you to stop drinking. I'm sure Potter doesn't want you manhandling him."

Hermione snorted, "You'd be surprised."

Ron gawked. "But Harry, mate, I . . . I thought you and Ginny might one day, you know . . ."

Harry's laughter cut Ron's spluttering off. He grabbed Draco and kissed him, again something he blamed on the alcohol because he really was much more suave than that, and apparated both himself and Draco back to his apartment. He couldn't help grinning at the memory of Ron's gobsmacked expression, just before he disappeared.

And the grin didn't fade when he finally looked around his bedroom. His trousers were strewn on the floor near the door, shoes and socks stuck in the pant legs, while Draco's were lying across a chair in the corner of the room. He noticed Draco's shirt, or what was left of it, lying in shards on the floor at the foot of the bed. Harry remembered ripping it off to make sure he didn't splinch Draco in his drunken attempt at apparition, checking every single inch of Draco's body with his hands and mouth and tongue, receiving the same treatment in an equally eager fashion.

"Potter," caused Harry to stop daydreaming and look up at the blonde who was now standing directly in front of him, between his parted legs, with a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Coffee?" the proffered drink dangling in front of Harry's face.

"You know," Harry began as he took the mug, along with the one in Draco's other hand, placing both on the table beside the bed. "I think we are far past the point of using surnames."

And, as Harry grabbed Draco and pulled him down by the collar of his own shirt, lips meeting for the first time while both their minds weren't clouded with alcohol, Harry completely forgot the green socks that now lay on the floor. He was only concerned with the soft lips on his own, the hands in his hair, and his once enemy pushing him down into the bed.