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Hogwarts: September 1998

He found them on one particularly wet day in mid-September. Term had started two weeks prior and, in all honesty, Draco couldn’t remember why he had bothered coming back for eighth year in the first place. When offered the choice between studying for N.E.W.T.s at home or at Hogwarts, his mother had advised him to return with his peers and try hard, my Dragon. And like a fool, he had listened. At home, there were no jeers or taunts. No glares or hexes. Worse than that, though, was the complete feeling of isolation.

The eighth years had been housed in a previously unused section of the castle near the Owlery. McGonagall had allocated two students per room, and Draco had found himself rooming with Neville Longbottom of all people! There were sixteen returning students in total, all mulling around the common room and sitting chatting on each other’s beds. But Draco was bloody lonely. No one spoke to him — unless they had to, or wanted to throw a hex at him. No Slytherin’s had returned other than himself, all opting to earn their N.E.W.T.s at home instead. Everyone else looked at him like the Death Eater Wannabe Scum he was and he honestly couldn’t blame them.

He remembered how often he would moan about being unable to find a second to himself in previous years. And now? Now he was beginning to understand just how claustrophobic being alone could be. Sometimes he found himself talking to them — Blaise, Theo, Vince, and Greg — and even provided the answers they would usually have given in lieu of the real thing. He was certain that if he continued this way, he would end up in the Janus Thickey ward before the year was out. What use were N.E.W.T.s if you were driven demented before you could use them? 

He had been on one of his daily circuits around the black lake, undaunted by the almost torrential rain that battered his body with cold. Weather like this was a sure-fire guarantee that one would not be disturbed. Most of the sane people, as well as the insane ones (aka Gryffindors), were cosy inside their common rooms. The wind driving the rain wooshed loudly in his ears, so much so that he almost missed the small shrill whistling coming from a nearby thatch of weeds. Curiosity, more than anything else, caused him to stop mid-stride and strain his ears. The sound was louder now that he was listening for it and he carefully backtracked a few steps and made his way into a patch of knee-high grass. It was there, in the midst of the sodden grass, under a canopy of shiny wet leaves, that he came face to face with eight drenched ducklings.

They were small and frozen and frantic-looking as they squeaked over and over again for a mother that clearly wasn’t coming. As soon as they noticed him hovering over the nest, they began trying to climb over each other to get to him, which struck him as odd. Surely safety lay within the nest, not outside it. Without thinking too much about it, he cast warming and shield charms around the nest in quick succession. He may be Death Eater scum, but he wasn’t about to let the poor things perish while he decided what to do about them. After a moment of watching the tiny creatures continue to squawk, he stood slowly, cast a disillusionment charm over the nest, and quickly made his way to the castle. The library would have something on raising ducklings. Just until he could decide what to do with them, of course. 

The library, however, proved to be as useless as he had always suspected. Not one book on ducklings, or any type of premature waterfowl at all! He’d searched for ages, and then, sick of the looks he was drawing from the students gathered there, he cracked and asked Pince for help. A hissed complaint at the elderly librarian at her insufficient collection, a quick run-in with Potter, and he was off, jogging towards the last place he’d ever thought he would visit on campus, and towards the only source of animal-related information he could think of.

*****

Fifteen rain-soaked minutes later, Draco found himself pounding on the large wooden door of Hagrid’s hut. A surge of barking from within was the only warning Draco received before the front door was yanked open and a harried-looking Hagrid stared him down.

“Oh, it’s you, is it? Wha’ can I do fer you, Malfoy? Well? Wha’s the matter? Kneazle got yer tongue?”

“I found something and I don’t know what to do with them and the library had no books so—”

“Found sommat? Found wha’?”

“Ducklings. They’re abandoned and I thought you would know what to do with them?”

Draco felt like a deer caught in a Lumos as Hagrid peered down at him with a hard look in his eye. It was only thanks to his Malfoy-breeding that he was able to resist shrinking and fidgeting under that stare, but only just. After what felt like an age, Hagrid seemed to make a decision, grunting in what Draco assumed was assent as he snagged his moleskin coat from the peg and stepped quickly out into the rain beside Draco and thudding the cabin door closed behind him.

“You bes’ lead the way.”

Which was how Draco found himself squatting alongside Hagrid next to the shielded nest. Upon sight of him, the ducklings began standing on wobbling legs and making their way towards him, crying needily for him all the while. Cries that became the most cutting of screeches once they reached the shield barrier and found they couldn’t actually reach him. 

“I reckon you’re righ’. They’re abandoned, and likely not by choice neither. There’s hawks here ‘bouts and the mother would’ve been easy pickin’s given how tired she musta been.”

“So what do we do?” demanded Draco as he watched the largest of the ducklings begin to make its way around the perimeter of the shield, as if determined to find an opening.

“Yeh’ve done the most important thing already, gettin’ them dry an’ warm. They’ll need lookin’ after, though.”

“You can do that though, can’t you?” Draco struggled to keep his voice steady. He knew more than most what it felt like to be lost and helpless.

“No! Stop it!” hissed Draco anxiously as he watched one or two of them begin to bump off the shield repeatedly, as if hoping brute force would do the trick. “They’re going to hurt themselves! Hagrid, can’t you do something?” 

“No can do,” chuckled Hagrid with amusement. “I reckon they’ve already pegged you as their mother. Looks like it’s up to you.”

“But— but I don’t know anything about raising ducklings! What am I supposed to do?”

“Hold on, I’ll be righ’ back.”

Somewhat perplexed, Draco watched Hagrid stomp away out of sight and waited. The ducklings were getting louder and louder, seemingly fixated on getting to him by any means. He could feel the panic begin to spread from his chest and out over his entire body, his skin prickling with it as if being poked by hundreds of tiny, but shockingly sharp, needles. He found himself beginning to whisper “come on, Hagrid, come on,” over and over again, although whether this was out of concern for himself or the ducklings, he couldn’t say. Before long — although Draco would swear it was hours, days even — Hagrid crouched back down beside him, holding a rather large cardboard box.

“You’ll need to make them a nest and you’ll need to feed them too. Just line this here box with something soft and they'll be okay for now. They’ll have been okay ‘til now ‘cause they live off the yolk at firs’, but now they’ll be hungry.” Hagrid paused in his instruction to pull a well-thumbed book out of the box and passed it to Draco with a smile. “This here will tell you what you need to know, feedin’ them and the like. Wet dog food with greens is bes’, I think. You’ll need to make sure they have fresh drinkin’ water. A tub for them to take a swim in now an’ then would be good too. There’s some of Fang’s dog food in the box an’ some spinach from my garden to get yeh started.”

“You’re kidding! I can’t take care of ducklings!”

“You found ‘em, Malfoy. I reckon they’re your responsibility now. Just don' take 'em inside. They're wild creatures an' need ter stay outside. Yeh'll need ter sort 'em an enclosure o' some kind. If yeh need anythin’, you know where to find me.”

With that, Hagrid stomped off back towards his cabin, leaving Draco to stare after him in desperation.

After a few very long minutes, it became clear that Hagrid wasn’t coming back, that the ducklings were in need of care, and that Draco was the only one to provide that care. He found himself wobbling, teetering, and finally keeling over onto his butt. As the sodden grass slowly seeped into his trousers, he could feel the cold breath of impending doom — or it could possibly just be the September wind — upon his neck, sending shivers down his spine and to his cowardly toes. No one was going to bail him out. It was all on him and, quite frankly, the thought that eight little lives depended upon him terrified the very aristocracy out of him. 

He stared at the ducklings a little longer, then seemed to slowly come to his senses. He picked himself up off the grass and lifted the rapidly dampening box. After drying the box and making it more comfortable with leaves and grass, Draco cancelled the shield charm around the nest and began to levitate the ducklings, one at a time, into the box, counting as he went to make sure he didn’t leave anyone behind. Lastly, he cast warming and silencing charms on the box — he had a Death Eater reputation to uphold after all — and then got to work.

*****

If Draco had thought that building the enclosure would be the difficult part, then he had sorely miscalculated! He stood as if frozen inside the enclosure next to the ducklings, who continued to shriek and bump into each other as if their lives depended upon it. Ducklings. He was standing inside a shield-protected enclosure with eight fucking ducklings. Salazar, how did he get himself into these situations? And the noise? Did they always need to make that infernal cry? It was like having a banshee screaming in your face!

“Look,” he began, deciding to attempt to apply reason to the situation, “it’s been a long day and we all need our sleep. So why don’t you little ones pop off to bed so I can do the same, yes?” There was a beat of silence where the little birds had paused to listen to him, likely startled by his sudden pleading speech, but the pause only made their renewed cries seem that much louder.

He couldn’t stand it! Hell, he couldn’t even think! No wonder their mother had opted to be eaten! Remembering the book Hagrid had given him, he lunged for it and quickly opened the cover to the introduction, reading aloud.

“‘Ducklings, when they first hatch, are highly vulnerable. If you are hand-rearing, they will require quite a lot of care, affection, and attention.’ Well, that’s easy enough...”  

He felt some of the tension leave his shoulders at that — they just needed some attention!  He knelt down next to the frightened cluster and began stroking, petting, and generally trying to play with the little birds. However, to his great and increasing horror, the cries only got louder, shriller, verging upon frantic.

“No!” Draco gasped, his eyes wide in panic as he groped for the duck book and began to frantically search the introduction for a clue. “It said to give you attention! How much attention do you need? Ah! Okay, ‘ Handle the ducklings as little as possible at first. No matter how gentle you try to be, they will find the whole ordeal stressful at first and will need patience and understanding .’ Great!” sighed Draco irritably, “ now it tells me. Alright, I need to soothe them without actually touching them? How in the name of Salazar’s balls do I do that?”

After staring somewhat open-mouthed at the squawking creatures for a few seconds, Draco scanned the contents and quickly discovered a ‘Duckling Care Checklist’ on page six. He quickly flipped to the allotted page, rustling the grass as he crossed his legs, and began to scan the list for clues. 

Ten minutes later and Draco found himself feeling as if he were going to succumb to tears. He’d already done everything on the list and nothing was working! He’d made them safe, warm, fed them, watered them, and provided a place to sleep — what more was there in life?

The cries were growing in volume, if that was possible. The pitch was now in the high whistle range. It was a possibility that, very soon, only bats would be able to hear them, and wouldn’t that be a bloody blessing! It took everything in his body to resist cowering in the corner of the enclosure with his hands pressed firmly over his ears, but in all honesty, he knew that just wouldn’t solve anything. He peered into the box and squinted at the ducklings. They looked exhausted and upset, and boy did he know the feeling! They looked like they needed to be hugged or something, but how could he do that without bloody touching them! The damned book advised to initially handle them as little as possible.

Suddenly, Draco had an idea and closed his eyes to help block out the shrieks, doing his best to take long, deep breaths — he was never going to manage to calm eight ducklings if he himself wasn’t calm first. After a minute or so, he felt slightly more grounded and began to sing, making sure to keep his voice low and gentle. 

Every time it rains, it rains

Pennies from heaven

Don't you know each cloud contains

Pennies from heaven

It was a song he hadn’t heard in a long time, one his mother used to sing to him when he was younger to help him sleep. It was a simple song, but soothing, like sinking into a warm bath or being wrapped in an old cosy blanket. After a moment, the ducklings began to calm, their cries slowing and quieting. They began to look up at him, seemingly mesmerised by the melody, swaying slightly just as Draco himself swayed, letting his soft soulful voice fill the enclosure. 

So when you hear it thunder,

Don't run under a tree

There'll be pennies from heaven

For you and me

As he reached the last lines of the song, he looked down at the ducklings and almost fainted in relief. They were asleep, all eight of them snuggled into the fur-lined hat he had taken off his own head once the warming charms of the enclosure had settled in. Draco found himself smiling at the thought that he would rather the ducklings sleep than risk waking them to retrieve his hat that had cost more than what most people spent on dress robes!

Feeling slightly giddy at the silence, Draco flopped onto his back, the dry ground slightly knocking the wind out of him. Holy fucking Hippogriffs. Ducklings were hard work and he’d only had them for less than two hours! He reached out for the book and quickly checked how long they would sleep for and only just managed to stifle a groan at the realisation that he would have to repeat the entire fiasco in about two hours. He hadn't felt this exhausted and totally terrified since Voldemort had become his housemate for a year. Merlin, was he in trouble. 

Harry had been sitting in the library for what felt like days but was really only a couple of hours. Hermione, as per usual, had dragged him and Ron to study — don’t you know your N.E.W.T.s will determine what you do for the rest of your life? Honestly, he’d mostly only given in to her to shut her up on the subject. But it was painfully dull and he’d already resorted to drawing little Snitches on his parchment instead of taking notes. A quick look over at Ron confirmed he was in a similar state of torture as Harry, his vacant stare aimed in the general direction of the Transfiguration textbook he was supposed to be reading.

However, before Harry could rally his inner Ravenclaw and knuckle down, a flash of platinum hair in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Malfoy. Skulking as per usual. He found his eyes narrowing in suspicion as Malfoy made his way into the Care of Magical Creatures section, only to emerge a few seconds later and begin to argue with Madam Pince. Harry could feel the annoyance surge in his blood at the sight. How dare he go around harassing old women! True, the ancient librarian could more than handle herself, but that wasn’t the point. As if Malfoy hadn’t caused enough trouble already! After a moment or two, Malfoy had clearly had enough and turned his back on Madam Pince and stalked towards the entrance. 

“Harry!” Hermione had her library scolding voice on, obviously unimpressed as Harry began to push up from his chair, his sights firmly set on Malfoy. “Where’re you going? You’ve still got extension charms to revise!”

“I know, I’m just going to see if they’re any other books. This one’s a bit hard to read, you know?”  Before Hermione could voice an objection to that, he scuttled off after Malfoy.

“Oi, Malfoy!” His yell halted Malfoy in his tracks just outside the heavy library doors. “I want to talk to you!”

Malfoy turned to face him just as Harry got to him, bringing them face to face.

“What, Potter?” Malfoy’s resigned sigh almost made Harry feel sorry for him, but he knew better.

“What was that with Pince? Berating senior citizens your new hobby, is it?”

“I don’t have time for this,” affirmed Draco as he turned to leave, stopped only by Harry’s Seeker-fast grab for his arm.

“I saw you, skulking around the Magical Creatures section and giving Pince a hard time. I don’t know what your problem is but I’m watching you, Malfoy.”

“Are you quite finished, or do you have a supporting speech to go with that? No? Well, I’ll be on my way.” Malfoy snatched his arm away from Harry’s grip and began to walk away, shoulders drooping tiredly. 

Harry leaned against the corridor wall and watched Malfoy until he’d disappeared around the corner. Something was up, that much was clear, and the first thing Harry was going to do was have a look in the Magical Creatures section for clues.

*****

“Where’ve you been? We were getting worried.”

“Why?”

“It’s been twenty minutes, Harry. And where are the books?”

“What books?” Harry had the feeling that this was the wrong answer. Annoyance flashed across Hermione’s face and she looked to Ron for help, who silently shook his head at her in refusal to get involved.

Harry pulled his bag onto the table and began rooting around, finally pulling out his map and activating it with a quick tap of his wand.

“What’re you doing with that?” asked Ron, preferring whatever Harry was up to rather than his Charms homework.

“Checking out where Malfoy’s going,” he mumbled, scanning the map for the git’s name, doing his best to ignore the collective groans from his friends and the muffled Muffiliato Hermione quickly cast around them. “Ah! He’s at the lake!” He looked up at his friends triumphantly, his enthusiasm dimming slightly when met with two very unimpressed expressions. “What?”

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice had taken on a softer, but serious, tone. “I know you’re used to always having a problem to solve and Voldemort’s plotting to intercept, but it’s different now. You need to stop jumping suspiciously at everything and just enjoy not being under constant attack for once!”

“Hermione, I—”

“I’m serious, Harry. You should go to the school counsellor McGonagall set up. She’s really good. Honestly, this isn’t healthy.”

“What isn’t healthy? I’m not doing anything, it’s Malfoy who’s up to something.”

“Harry—”

“He was in the Care of Magical Creatures section! He doesn’t even take that subject!”

“How do you know what subjects he takes?” asked Hermione, her voice strangely tight.

“I just— That’s not the point! The point is, why was he there if he doesn’t need to be?”

“I don’t care, Harry! I couldn’t give a monkey’s fur what he’s up to, if anything, and neither should you! Oh, honestly!” She threw her hands up in frustration and pulled her parchment closer. “Fine. Whatever. Ron, you talk to him about it! Goodness knows he won’t listen to me!” With a final glare at Harry, she bent over her notes and began to write furiously.

Harry went to share an eye-roll with Ron, only to find him looking at him funny.

“What?”

“You have to admit she has a point, mate.”

“Oh, not you too!” 

“Well, you can get a bit Malfoy-centric.”

“He’s up to something!”

“Maybe…”

“Definitely! Why else would he be skulking around books on magical creatures and yelling at the elderly?”

“Maybe it’s his new hobby and she didn’t have the book he wanted?”

“Then why is he down at the lake in the pouring rain?”

“Maybe he’s chatting up the giant squid. New crush and all that.”

“Be serious, Ron—”

“I am being serious! What does it matter to you what he’s up to?”

“It matters,” demanded Harry with finality. “And I’m going to prove I’m right.” 

He quickly checked he had his cloak on him, forced his notes and books back into his bag and slung it on his shoulder. He shot a final glare at his so-called friends and, map in hand, hurried down towards the lake.

*****

Harry had never been more thankful for the waterproof quality of the invisibility cloak as he knelt in the tall grass, although he found himself wishing it also came with a heating charm. He’d been standing, but the shock of what he found Malfoy doing was enough to drop him to his knees. Harry couldn’t help but thank Godric for the howling wind, otherwise Malfoy would have heard his shocked gasp for sure. If it weren’t for that, Malfoy would have known he was there. He tugged the cloak tighter around his icy limbs and squinted through the rain at the strange sight before him.

Ducklings! Malfoy was messing around with a pile of very cold, very soggy, yellow ducklings. He’d been watching Malfoy for the last half hour and all he’d done was put the ducklings in a box and start messing around with wire and grass and whatnot. There didn’t seem to be a mother at all, which was worrying, and Harry found himself hoping that Malfoy hadn’t done anything untoward to her. Unable to stand the cold any longer, Harry heaved himself to his feet and made his way back to the common room. He had a lot of thinking to do and an apparent puzzle to solve. 

By the time he got back to the common room it was after nine and most of the eighth years had headed on up to their dorms. Ron and Hermione were likely trying to snag some alone time, or at least, he hoped for Ron’s sake they were. Surely, Hermione wasn’t sadistic enough to have the poor man still working away in the library. Even Hitler took a break now and then. Apparently. 

He surveyed the nearly empty room and sighed, thinking of how busy the Gryffindor common room was likely to be. In all fairness, Harry couldn’t blame the eighth years. He’d spent a lot of his time in his room as well. It was either that or get up close and personal with people he wouldn’t usually need to get close and personal with. He dumped his stuff onto the arm of one of the large armchairs near the fire and flopped down, grateful for the heat chasing away the gooseflesh from his wind-chilled skin.

He had no idea what McGonagall had been thinking, segregating the eighth years like this. It was like they were being stripped of the only identities they’d ever known at Hogwarts. House-unity was all very well, but there were too few of them and enough emotional baggage to fuel a soap opera. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he had the worst lot, though, the majority of the eighth years were Gryffindors, after all. He could only imagine how the others felt. How Malfoy felt. Not that the git didn’t deserve every bit of misery that was slung his way, but the thought made Harry all the more grateful he had his friends nearby if he should need them. 

The thought of Malfoy seemed to rouse Harry out of his morose ponderings and he reached into his bag for a self-inking quill and some parchment. What he needed was a list. All the reasons why Malfoy could possibly be wanting ducklings and all the ways those no doubt nefarious plans could be thwarted. He put the nib of the quill to the parchment and began to scribble his thoughts, trying hard not to think how happy Hermione would be if she knew Harry was using his spare time to make lists. 

An hour later and Harry was at his wit’s end. He’s made a list, alright, but it was the biggest load of nonsense he’d ever seen — and he’d sat through an entire year of Lockhart teaching. He looked down at his meagre list and huffed loudly at the guesses he’d written there.

• Training them to be evil killing machines.

• Magically modified genius ducklings.

• Magically bugged to spy.

• Hosts for evil magical plague invented to wipe out the entire castle.

Even he had to admit Malfoy quite likely wasn’t doing any of these things with the ducklings. In fact, loath as he was to award Malfoy any kind of positive attribute, he seemed to be helping them. Caring for them. He’d definitely been building an enclosure of sorts for them. Yes, the mother was missing, but that could be innocent. 

Unable to think about it any longer, Harry scrubbed his hands across his face and yawned thickly. If he was going to be forced to think well of Malfoy for something, no matter how small, then he was going to need fortifying. He heaved himself out of the armchair, grabbed his things, and made his way up to the room he shared with Seamus. With any luck, Seamus would be in and willing to share his Firewhisky stash.

*****

It turned out Seamus wasn’t there, but Harry hadn’t let that stop him from achieving drunken heights. The more he drank, the more he added ideas to his list, each one becoming more and more outrageous than the last, his handwriting beginning to resemble doctor scrawl. He sloshed another generous amount of Firewhisky into his glass and peered at the list, thinking it would be so much easier to read if only the letters would stop squiggling around.

• Bred for use in some kind of evil blood ritual.

Merlin, he’d really been grasping at straws with this one! Honestly! How much blood could a small duckling hold anyway? Not much, he’d wager. You’d get a goat or something more traditional for that sort of thing. It would likely take hundreds of ducklings to produce the blood offering one decent-sized goat or bull could produce! Not only that, but where would said ritual take place? The git no longer had access to the dungeons and surely people would notice if Malfoy were doing that sort of stuff in the common room. True, there were many empty classrooms still waiting on final repair measures, and there was always the possibility that Malfoy could be using one of them. 

A sudden image of a bare-chested Malfoy loomed in his mind, the moon shining in through an open window, giving his platinum hair an otherworldly glow. His alabaster skin looking soft and supple over lean muscles. The glint in Malfoy’s eye seemed almost challenging as he painted symbols for the ritual on his naked torso with a blood-dipped finger, his teeth grazing his lower lip as the sensation— or whatever. Not that he would know what Malfoy’s chest looked like, or anything to do with blood magic, really. Man, he really must be drunk if he was thinking about… that …about the ferret. Having firmly anchored himself in a non-perving-over-one’s-nemesis place, in the end, he had to admit this idea was simply impractical. 

• Breeding them to fuel his insatiable hunger for crispy duck snacks.

He’d thought of this one when he realised he’d missed dinner and had asked Kreacher to bring him something to snack on. It turned out people really could be influenced by their stomachs. Hermione would be pleased with the conclusion, it was the one thing she was always going on at Ron about. Maybe Malfoy was the same and was really just duck-oriented in his tastes. Harry had to confess he’d more than once overindulged in duck spring rolls over the summer with Ron and Hermione — maybe Malfoy was the same? 

Just as before, the image of a half-naked Malfoy popped into his head uninvited; the smirk Malfoy was famous for adorning his chiselled features; a platter of duck meat sitting in front of him; his hands slowly tearing off a stripe of meat and dipping it in soy sauce, before lifting it to his mouth; his teeth tugging the meat into his clever mouth. The glint in his eye becoming brighter as he sucked each fingertip into his mouth, each one popping wetly from that puckered cupid’s bow as he cleaned them— No! What in the name of Merlin’s pubes was going on? Malfoy could eat duck however he liked and it didn’t matter to him, and never once had he thought of Malfoy’s mouth as something other than to punch. Besides, this idea was just stupid. If he wanted to eat duck, all he had to do was ask the bloody house-elves. Why bother with all the fuss involved in feeding them and whatnot? Which brought him to his final, and most ridiculous, idea on the list. 

• Breeding them to improve his ruined reputation. 

Harry took a long swallow of his drink as he allowed the ridiculous idea to wander around in his alcohol-addled brain. Death Eater turned duck raiser? It was possible — after everything with Voldemort, he would never accuse anything of being entirely impossible — but was it probable? Harry had to concede that looking after helpless fluffy creatures was about as far away as one could get from letting Death Eaters into the castle. It would certainly lend him a softness that he’d never had before, smoothen down those barbs and prickles that he was so famous for. It could work, after all, everyone loves a reformed character. 

Once again, the image of Malfoy swam into his head, although he was mercifully fully clothed this time. The green light of the Slytherin common room giving the scene an otherworldly tinge as Malfoy sat in one of the larger armchairs, cuddling and stroking the birds in front of the fire. His intelligent eyes crinkling in affection as he cooed sweet nothings to the creatures. The soft, yellow feathers fluffing against the pale skin of his cheek as he snuggled them close, perhaps even pressing pink-tinged lips against their soft down— for the sake of the fucking founders! What the fuck kind of Firewhisky was this? Insanity-generating or something? There was no way Malfoy was canoodling with ducklings to improve his public image. The idea was the most ridiculous he’d ever heard, and he’d been party to some pretty shoddy schemes back in the day in the Gryffindor tower.

He scrunched up his list into a ball, threw the parchment at the wall, and downed the rest of his drink. There was nothing else to do but accept that, for whatever reason, Malfoy was helping the ducklings. What’s more, he obviously didn’t want anyone to know about it, sneaking around and keeping them in a secluded area by the lake. Almost as if he didn’t want anything nice about himself to get out and ruin his murderous, cowardly reputation. Malfoy would probably be ridiculously embarrassed if anyone found out, actually.

The thought caused a sly, almost evil, smile to spread warmth throughout his body as a fantastic idea began to unfurl in his brain. Malfoy may not want anyone to know, but Harry did know, and man was he going to have some fun with that come morning! Feeling more cheered than he had in days, Harry began changing into his pyjamas for bed. He needed to be up early to execute stage one of his plan, after all.

Draco yawned as he poured himself another black coffee. He was so tired he didn’t think there was a word for it. He’d always wondered how many children he would have when the time came, and this whole debacle just confirmed the niggling suspicion he’d always had that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t cut out to be a parent. If his mother wanted a Malfoy heir then she was going to be sorely disappointed! 

He took a long sip of his coffee and was pondering whether he wanted to have toast and jam or not, when the post owls arrived. Draco wasn’t expecting anything from his mother this morning, but he still found himself looking up to see if he could spot Socrates amongst the other owls. He was so focused in his search that he didn’t notice the barn owl until it landed right on his plate, rendering his toast inedible. 

For a moment, all Draco could do was gape at the creature as it held out its leg with a letter attached, earning himself a reproachful hoot. He looked at the owl carefully as he untied the letter. Not only was it not one he recognised, but, according to the tag around it’s foot,  it was also a standard school-issue owl. Once relieved of its burden, the owl fluffed his tail feathers importantly and swooped off towards the Owlery, leaving Draco holding the mysterious letter. He knew it couldn’t be anything dangerous thanks to McGonagall screening his mail, especially since the first couple of days of term saw him inundated with howlers and cursed letters. It was strange, though. If someone at school wanted to send him a letter, why not just hand it to him?

In the end, curiosity won out and he found himself pulling a nondescript folded piece of parchment out from its envelope. He unfolded the parchment and froze, the parchment dropping onto his plate, his stomach swooping with dread as his eyes read the messy scrawl over and over again. 

I know what you did yesterday!

Draco lifted his eyes from the mocking note and began to survey the other students sitting at the eighth year table. They were all chatting with each other, eating their breakfasts, and one or two were even scribbling last-minute additions to unfinished homework assignments. No one looked suspicious or smug or inordinately interested in his mail. He scanned the other house tables for clues, but no one was paying him one lick of attention! Unable to cope with the idea that someone was in that hall laughing at his confusion, he quickly grabbed the letter and his bag and strode out of the room, careful to keep his head high the entire way. He needed to check on the ducklings before class anyway. 

*****

The slam of the door could be heard down in the eighth year common room as Draco stomped his way into his room, his hair sticky and wet with spit — a reminder according to the Gryffindor seventh years who had gotten hold of him. He dropped his bag by the door and made his way directly into the bathroom, grateful that at least the showers were ensuite and not communal like they were for the lower houses. He locked the door behind him and began to peel his robes off, trying hard not to wince at the amount of sweat and dirt and spit clinging to them. To be fair, it was his own fault. He knew he was a target. He knew they tended to try and get him in between classes so the teachers didn’t see. He knew it was risky going down to check the ducklings again that morning, what with the greenhouses being so close by. He should have been paying attention. 

He set the shower at the hottest temperature he could stand and stepped under the spray. Desperate to get the feeling of grime away, he loaded up his hands with shampoo and began to scrub, digging his fingernails into his scalp until it began to sting. His ears were throbbing with the echoes of abuse and he found himself turning the spray pressure up higher to try and block it out. His eyes smarted as the sheer frustration tried to force out tears, but he wouldn’t let them come. 

Malfoy’s didn’t cry. 

He hadn’t cried when Voldemort seared the mark into his skin even though the agony was the worst thing he had ever experienced. When Harry had walked in on him in that bathroom he hadn’t been crying, but Merlin had it been close! There were tears, sure. But he hadn’t been crying. Crying inferred despair, but what he’d been feeling was something so far beyond that. He could remember the feeling of pure unadulterated terror churning through his body, nearly doubling him over. So no, he hadn’t cried then. He hadn’t even cried when his father had been led away after his guilty verdict to receive The Kiss. There was no way some vigilante lower years were going to make him cry now. 

Minutes later, or maybe hours, Draco returned to the bedroom and stopped in front of the mirror, his towel slung loosely around his hips, the reflection of his heat-blemished skin stark against the white of the Sectumsempra scars on his chest. All he wanted to do was get into something comfortable and hammer through the mountain of homework that was beginning to accumulate. He grabbed some matching grey pyjamas from his trunk at the bottom of his bed, and then froze. There was something on his bed. Something large and fluffy and obscenely yellow. 

Just as he was about to react to the distasteful mallard, the door clattered open and Neville came bustling inside, carrying a heavy-looking woody plant in a large red pot. Draco stood there, watching Neville settle the plant next to his bed, and waited until finally he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Stop faffing about with the bloody plant, Longbottom! Do you think you’re funny or something?”

“What’re you on about, Malfoy?”

“I swear, if you don’t get that…that thing off my bed and out of my sight this second—”

“Not that being threatened by a guy in a towel isn’t utterly terrifying, Malfoy, but I have no idea what you’re on about.” Draco had no idea when Neville had developed sass, but he was certain it hadn’t been there before.

“This!” Draco practically yelled the word, as he strode over to the head of his bed and snatched up the offending item, brandishing it at Neville angrily. “I’m on about this , Longbottom!”

“That’s a duck teddy…something you’re trying to tell me, Malfoy? You have a duck fetish or something?” Draco carefully scanned Neville’s face, determined to seek out any hints of mockery, but all he could see was confusion and slight amusement.

“I’m saying that I know you put it there and you can bloody well get rid of it! You think you’re bloody hysterical, don’t you? All you arseholes throwing your weight around! And fine, I get it. I deserve it! The names, the hexes, whatever. But I draw the line at this shit!”

“Erm, you draw the line at fluffy stuffed duck toys in primary colours?” Neville was obviously trying not to laugh right in Draco’s face, and that more than anything else seemed to make Draco all the more furious. He tightened his grip on the duck and stepped closer to Neville, fury practically radiating out of his entire body.

“So help me, if you don’t confess and get rid of this foul—”

“Fowl?” Neville humorously supplied, seeming to enjoy every second of Draco’s distress.

“Longbottom! I swear to Merlin that—”

“Let me guess, your father will hear about it? Come off it, Malfoy. Why don’t you put some clothes on and keep your stupid duck toy out of my face.” With that, Neville turned on his heel and left the room, leaving Draco feeling foolish and wrong-footed and with a fist-full of fluffy yellow duck.

*****

The eighth year breakfast table was a hive of chatter and activity as Draco sullenly stood next to the table, poured himself a cup of coffee, and pocketed a scone for later. The sooner he could get his caffeine fix and leave, the better. After a minute, the fact that he was standing and not sitting began to draw notice. 

“Oi Malfoy,” called Seamus heartily, “how come you’re not sitting? You got piles or something?” If the level of rambunctious laughter was any indicator, everyone at the table seemed to find this hilarious. Draco did his best to ignore them all, taking large sips of his coffee even though it was burning a painful path down his throat.

“Oh, he can’t sit down.” Draco groaned almost painfully as Neville managed to calm down long enough to explain the situation in their room this morning. Suddenly, Draco found himself wishing he had obliviated the memory from the git. Of course he was going to go telling everyone! He flicked his wand at his cup and murmured a quick cooling charm, hoping to take the edge off the heat enough to drink it quicker. To be fair, he wouldn’t have even bothered with breakfast if it wasn’t for the book on teaching ducklings to forage he was expecting with the owl post.

“Yeah, someone’s only gone and hexed all his pants! If he sits down they let out a huge quack!” 

“You’re joking! That’s fucking priceless!” gasped Weasley, almost as red as his hair from laughing too much. Draco found himself hoping that the gits would all laugh themselves to death. That would teach them! 

“If it were me, I’d just go commando!” guffawed Seamus, finding the whole thing much funnier than it had any right to be. 

The laughter was quenched somewhat with the arrival of the post. Hermione Granger had deftly opened the Daily Prophet and was reading it as she forked eggs into her mouth. Parvati Patil was squealing over some love letter she’d gotten from some beau she’d met over the summer. Draco scanned the owls, his eyebrows almost meeting his hairline when one dropped, not a book, but a nondescript letter in front of him. 

Warily, he reached out, opened the envelope, and pulled out a large postcard with a cluster of ducklings on the front, all moving and flapping their wings as Draco stared in horror at the moving scene. He turned the postcard over and there, in the middle of the card in bright green letters, was the threatening assurance, “ I know your fluffy little secret.”

“Nice duck postcard, Malfoy!”   

“What is it with you and ducks?”

“That’s not all, you know!” Neville sounded positively gleeful. “He has a huge stuffed duck on his bed too!”

“You’re kidding?”

“No way!”

“Way,” declared Neville authoritatively. “A couple of days ago I just got back from the greenhouses with my mini Caucasian Elm plant and Malfoy was standing in the middle of the room in nothing but a towel, waving this stupid stuffed duck around!” Weasley almost choked on his mouthful of sausage as Neville grinned generously at his housemates. “Then, I kid you not, he demands that I put the teddy there. As if it wasn’t his all alone.”

“Well, you have to admit having a stuffed duck doesn’t do much for the Death Eater image!” Seamus looked like the Kneazle that had got the cream as everyone laughed and agreed with his statement and Draco wanted nothing more than to hex the stupid big smirk off of his smug face.

Finally, Draco gulped down the last dregs of his coffee and made his way out of the hall, determined to fit in a visit with the ducklings before class started. As the other eighth years called out duck puns at his back, he found himself shaking with rage. This really was all he needed. He should never have come back in the first place. 

*****

It had been three days since his underwear had been charmed to quack and it didn’t look as if the fowl-related attacks were likely to stop any time soon. Every morning brought taunting mail informing him that someone within the castle knew about the ducklings. Even if he skipped breakfast, the owls seemed to find him. The one that morning had actually arrived as he was sitting playing with the ducklings in the enclosure. It had been a ridiculous postcard again, this time with a cartoon duck on the front with the caption “Birds of a feather must stick together!” On the other side was the usual scrawled note demanding “ I know everything!” He knew they were being sent by one of the students in the school, possibly someone in his year, and it was utterly driving him to distraction not knowing who. 

After the underwear thing, Draco had thought things couldn’t get any worse, but they had! A package had arrived for him filled with about twenty rubber duck toys! Draco could actually feel his blood boiling at the memory of the jokes he had to put with that day. It was the reason he never opened any of the letters or packages at the breakfast table any more. Hell, it was the reason he never bothered to go to breakfast any more 

That morning, things had progressed even further. The culprit had charmed his shoes to leave duck footprints wherever he walked, and he unfortunately didn’t notice until he reached Charms and Professor Flitwick demanded to know why Draco was making such a mess on the floor. He’d gone back up to his room to change his shoes, but the arse responsible had actually cast the charm on all of his shoes! He actually found himself hoping to all the Gods known to wizards and muggles that he never found out who it was, because he would likely be facing a lengthy stretch in Azkaban for what he would end up doing to them!

It needed to come to a head, and as Draco made his way back to his room with long purposeful strides, he was formulating a plan. He would stay awake the whole night and catch whoever was tormenting him in the act. Once he confronted them, he would leave whatever was left of them to the mercy of the Headmistress, who although she was a Gryffindor, was also (and much to Draco’s chagrin) incredibly fair.  

He finally reached his room and pushed the door open, only to be rewarded with a thudding on his head and a wet, sticky sensation running down his forehead and neck.

Eggs.

Someone had placed duck eggs above the door, waiting for him to walk into the room.

He stood there for a long moment, breathing through his anger, and then forced himself to step the rest of the way into the room, closing the door behind him and securing it with a strong locking charm. The room was mercifully empty, Longbottom was perhaps visiting his girlfriend along the corridor. Draco leaned heavily against the door, his eyes fixed ahead of him. He stood there for several long moments, trying to find the wherewithal to deal with this latest development.

The scream that suddenly filled the room was agonising, as if it was being ripped from somewhere deep within him. His lungs and eyes were burning with the need for release, for oxygen, to cry. He became aware that he was sitting on the floor, his legs against his chest, and for the life of him couldn’t remember making the choice to sit. He lifted his trembling hands and fisted his hair as he sobbed, the eggs running down his face and mixing with his tears and snot. Why was he here? In the beginning, it had all seemed so crystal clear, but now he couldn’t remember. He rested his forehead against his knees, the egg soaking into the material of his school trousers, and cursed the day he was ever born. 

Harry made his way towards Ron’s room, whipping off the invisibility cloak as he went. He gave the door a cursory knock and barged in, unsurprised and unbothered when Ron and Hermione flew apart from each other at his entrance. 

“Sorry guys,” he offered, not looking sorry in the slightest, “but I’ve done something and I need…”

“What’s happened?” Hermione immediately got up and pulled him towards the bed, peering worriedly into his face.

“Here, mate, it can’t be that bad.”

“It is.” Harry’s assurance of the severity of the situation made Ron’s eyes widen dramatically. Harry would normally have found it funny.

“Fuck, is it a tea moment or a whisky moment?”

“Whisky.”

Ron quickly summoned his bottle of Firewhisky and three glasses, pouring each of them a generous measure, ignoring Hermione’s disapproving scowl as he pressed a glass into her hand.

“Well, we can’t help if you don’t tell us.”

“I— well remember I was going on about Malfoy being up to something? Well, it turns out he’s been looking after a flock of ducklings down by the lake.”

“Ducklings?” Hermione sounded puzzled, as if Malfoy and ducklings were two things that had no business being in a sentence together.

“Yeah. At first I thought he must be up to something so I tried coming up with a list of evil duckling-related plots, but it turns out he’s genuinely looking after them. So, I sort of thought—”

“What? You thought what, Harry?”

“Mate! You’re the one who’s been messing with Malfoy with the duck stuff?”

“Harry!” The disappointment in Hermione’s voice made Harry feel ten times worse, which he hadn’t thought was possible a mere second before.

“I know, okay! It was funny at first, you know, just messing with him. It was just a laugh. But I think I took it too far. Tonight I— and he—”

“Oh Harry, what did you do?”

“I set up a trap so that when he opened his bedroom door, half a dozen duck eggs smashed onto his head.” He grimaced as his friends gasped in shock.

“Mate, that’s a bit much, even for Malfoy.”

“Yeah. I know.” Harry couldn’t look his friends in the eye. “I hid in the room under my cloak so I could watch it and it was just— I fucked up.”

“What did he do? Did he know you were there?”

“Oh, Harry! You’ll be expelled!”

“Don’t be daft, they’re not going to expel Harry Potter, are they?”

“Guys! Stop!” Of all the times for his friends to bicker, this certainly wasn’t it. “He just stood there quietly. And then he locked the door and he just, sort of, sat on the floor… crying.”

“Harry James Potter! I don’t know how, but you need to fix this. Don’t you know what Malfoy’s been going through lately?”

“What—?”

“People keep giving him a hard time, mate. You know, names and hexes, The usual. Apparently, McLaggen and Corner got hold of him the other day outside the greenhouses. Dean was telling me about it last night.”

“I didn’t know!” Harry felt scalded inside his veins. Malfoy had been getting the shit bullied out of him so far, and he’d made it worse, thinking it was some great big joke. He felt ready to vomit.

“Fuck. I just— fuck!” Harry took a large swallow of his whisky, revelling in the burn as penance. “I’ll fix it. Somehow, I’ll fix it.”

“I know you will, Harry.”

“You know, for someone who spends their time practically stalking Malfoy, you don’t really notice much, do you?”

“Hey! I wasn’t stalking!”

“No, you were harassing. Ron has a point, though. If you want to be an Auror, you’ll need to pay more attention to what’s actually going on around you and not just what you want to see.”

“Yeah, yeah. Message received, loud and clear.” Harry swallowed the last of his drink and held out the glass for Ron to refill, which he did immediately. “Okay, so how do I fix this? I can’t exactly just stroll up to him and reveal all. He’ll murder me!”

“And you would deserve it!” admonished Hermione sternly.

“Maybe you could tell the others to lay off him a bit? And stop playing duck pranks on him?”

“Wait…” Hermione’s entire face shone with curiosity, “you said you made a list of reasons Malfoy could be looking after ducklings. What on earth could you have possibly thought he was up to? Charming them huge and teaching them to spout pure-blood slurs at unsuspecting Muggles?”

“Fuck, just imagine the Daily Prophet headline! “Britain has been taken over by giant ducklings, and they say rude things about your mum! More on page 4!”

“Fuck off!” huffed Harry, uncomfortable at the sudden turn in the conversation. Taking another bracing slurp of whisky, Harry launched into a detailed recount of his list, much to Ron and Hermione’s delight.

*****

Over the course of the next week, Harry attempts to make things right. Any time he sees someone bothering Malfoy — Draco — he steps in. He has a word with the rest of his year one by one, telling them in no uncertain terms that Malfoy is officially off-limits, and that anyone who messes with him would essentially also be messing with Harry. It seems to do the trick and, as far as Harry knows, no one has said or done anything remotely mean to Draco the entire week. 

He keeps an eye on Draco during lessons too, noticing how he tries to keep himself invisible. Never offering answers to questions or volunteering help. He’s smart, though, and finishes his work fast, second only to Hermione, his marks perfect each time.

Harry still wears his invisibility cloak and watches him play with the ducklings. He seems to have them named and spends more time with them than he does with actual people. Harry isn’t sure he can blame him, considering how people have been treating him lately. 

Harry starts to notice things. How Draco nibbles on his bottom lip when chopping and measuring in Potions. How graceful his wand movements are in Charms and Transfiguration. Somehow, Harry finds himself simply trying to copy Draco rather than bothering with the professors’ instructions. He notices that Draco has tea with Hagrid in his hut twice a week for about half an hour at a time. They talk about the ducklings’ progress and Draco genuinely seems to enjoy the meetings, as short as they are. 

He realises that he hasn’t heard Draco say one slur against anyone’s blood status or jeer about half-breeds. Somewhere along the way, Draco has changed into someone new, or maybe he’s always been this way and never had the chance to express it. He notices how much time Draco actually spends with the ducklings, teaching them to swim properly, how to feed themselves. He makes sure they’re clean and warm. 

He notices that every night, Draco sings to ducklings as they snuggle down into an overly fluffy fur hat they seem to be using as a nest. He makes sure they’re all comfortable and warm and strokes their yellowish feathers gently as he tentatively begins to sing to them. Merlin! Harry thinks he might actually die from the beauty of that voice. After a while, Harry makes sure to never miss the duck’s bedtime routine just so he can hear Draco’s low singing smooth over his skin warmly like liquid silver and wrap around him like a comfort blanket. Every time it rains Harry finds himself thinking of the song and has to bite his lip to stop himself from humming the tune. One night, after a particularly vicious nightmare of Bellatrix slicing Hermione’s arm, Harry remembers the hauntingly beautiful words Draco usually sings to the ducklings and wishes he could ask Draco to sing to him and stroke his hair in the same way. 

Harry realises that everything that happens has some kind of link back to Draco. That he can’t stop looking for his name on the map, for his face in a crowd. Sometimes in the shower, he finds himself thinking of those pearly white teeth worrying the pink plump lip and feels himself yearn for something he never knew was there, certainly something he had never felt with Cho or Ginny, and in the end, he’s forced to take himself in hand and stroke away the tension and confusion until he comes, his hand sticky and his arm tired. He thinks of Draco in the shower and wonders if he feels the same way about Harry. He realises, finally, that somewhere along the way, he’s fallen in love with the git.

Draco goes from class to class, feeling as if he’s missing something pivotal. Something’s not right. He knows it because it’s been days and no one has bothered him. Not that he wants to be harassed, but he’d gotten so used to it, day and night, that the sudden absence of it is unnerving. Like the calm before the storm. There are times when he thinks someone might start with him, like when he sees Corner or McLaggen and his whole body tenses, but then they get a stiffness about their expression and simply walk away. Draco can’t account for it at all.

Potter and his friends are suddenly everywhere he turns, making a point of saying hello every time they cross paths, no matter how many times a day. It's having a roll-on effect too, with the other eighth years no longer glaring at him and a complete lack of open hostility. Longbottom even invited him to hang out with the Gryffindors the other day. Draco’s shock and inbred manners had battled before he finally managed to choke out a painful, “no, thank you.”

In lessons, he finds himself in Potter’s company a lot. If a partner is needed, Potter appears next to him as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. For weeks, Draco’s been having to work alone or partner with the professors, and now, suddenly, Boy Wonder is everywhere he looks. It’s not just in classes, either. When he’s studying in the library, Potter often finds him, sitting next to him in silence as they both work through their assignments.

Quite often, Draco finds himself confiding in the ducklings, telling them about all the strange things that have been happening, and he can tell they agree it’s suspicious. As he strokes them and they chirrup back at him, he wonders if he’s finally losing his mind. 

He must be, it’s the only explanation for how often he finds himself thinking of Potter. Of how confident he carries himself when in class, only to try and blend into the background when in a crowd. How his glasses magnify his green eyes, making them seem all the brighter. How he quietly cares for those he loves without need of acknowledgement — ordering extra ink and quills for Granger and making sure the plates with Weasley’s favourites are nearest to him during meal times. He notices that Potter has grown a little taller in the last month, his shoulders filling out his robes when before they were small and thin. Sometimes when he’s working in the library, he thinks of taking Potter’s hand and looking him in the eye as they stand together and tell the world to fuck off. 

After a day or two, he begins to nurture feelings towards Potter that he had never before allowed himself to think about. He realises Potter has become Harry. He doesn’t know what to do with that and so he heads down to visit the ducklings. 

*****

As he nears the enclosure, he can hear chirping and realises the silencing and shield charms have been disarmed. Quickening his steps to a slow jog, he rounds the bushes and freezes at the sight of the ducklings clucking and fussing around one Harry Potter. Fury bubbles inside his stomach at the audacity of Harry — of Potter — daring to trespass. He slides his wand out of his sleeve and stalks into the enclosure, glaring down at Potter as he does. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Potter?” Draco shudders at the sound of his own voice, the snarl curling around his words in a way they haven’t done in months. 

“I can explain.” Potter pushes himself to his feet and stands facing Draco, his hands held in front of him in a placating gesture.

“You have the count of three, Potter, before I hex your arse out of this pen!”

“It was me, ok!” blurts Harry, red-faced and fidgeting.

“What was you?”

“The duck puns.”

“You—” Draco feels his eyes bulge and he knows he’s about a second away from throttling Potter with his bare hands.

“I’m sorry. I thought— I don’t know what I thought, exactly. That you were up to something, maybe? But I watched you, and you weren’t, and I thought I could have some fun with it. But then I saw you cry after the egg trap—”

“That was you? Why, you little—”

“I’m sorry! I swear, the second it happened I felt like utter shite.”

“Is that so?” Draco winces at the icy tone of his own voice. To think he was feeling quite positive only a few moments before.

“I tried to make up for it. I got people to back off and I stopped the pranks.”

“So all this, partnering in class, studying together, smiling and saying hi, it was out of pity?”

“No! I swear it wasn’t. I felt bad at first, but you— I noticed—”

“What?!”

“You, okay? I noticed you! You’re smart and resourceful. You look after abandoned ducklings, for Merlin’s sake! And you’re fucking gorgeous! How did I never notice it before?”

Draco feels frozen to the spot. Gorgeous? Potter thinks I’m gorgeous? What the actual—?

“This is just another trick.” Draco refuses to look at Potter, shaking his head vigorously as if trying to rid himself of bothersome flies.

“It’s not. I think about you all the time.” Potter grasped his forearms, forcing eye contact. “I had a nightmare the other night, and all I wanted was for you to sing to me like you do to the ducks. What is that song anyway?”

“You’ve heard me sing?” Draco watches Harry cautiously nod his head, his throat suddenly dry. “It was something my mother used to sing to me. Pennies From Heaven. It’s a Muggle song, if you can believe that. My father made her stop.”

“You’re amazing when you sing.”

“Potter—” He feels as if the storm has been taken out of his sails and he has no idea which way to paddle in.

“Harry. I’m just Harry. Erm, I don’t suppose you’d introduce me to your friends?” Potter looks nervous yet hopeful as he gestures to the ducklings. 

“Why, Harry, I’d be delighted,” smiles Draco with only a hint of amusement. “The one by your foot, that’s Apus, since he’s the biggest. And that one there, the one in the water? That’s Cetus. Aquila’s the one that’s running around and pecking at stuff on the ground. The one that’s singing constantly? That’s Lyra. The one with the really skinny long legs? That’s Grus. Misca is the one always flapping her wings. I think she’ll be the first to fly, actually. Where is…Merlin!” Draco swoops down and scoops a drenched duckling out of the makeshift pond. “This is Pavoa. She’s constantly getting herself into trouble. I swear she must have used up nine lives already. There’s one more…where is she…ah! See there, in the longer grass? That’s Chamaelea. I swear she’s the stealthiest duckling around.”

Draco watches as Harry greets each individual duckling, taking care to pet and coo over Pavoa as she recovers from yet another near-death experience.

“They’re amazing!” Harry smiles fondly at the small birds, still focusing most of his attention on little Pavoa, making Draco’s heart melt into a puddle of Hufflepuff essence.

“They are, aren’t they?”

“Would you come with me to Hogsmeade at the weekend?”

Draco looks sharply at Harry, searching his face for any hints of this being some kind of sick joke. “As a date?” The very words make Draco’s heart thud in his chest so aggressively he wouldn’t be surprised if he had a heart attack.

“Yes Draco, as my date.” Harry’s fingers are twisting in his jumper, showing just how nervous he is, and it’s what gives Draco the courage to answer.

“Yes. I’d like that.”

“Thank fuck for that!” Harry beams, his smile lighting up the entire enclosure. Draco feels he could bask in the warmth of that smile for days. Suddenly, Harry reaches out and grasps Draco’s jumper, pulling him forwards and catching Draco’s lips with his own. Draco gasps at the contact and leans into it, desperate for more and scared he might never get it. After a moment, Harry pulls away, leaning his forehead against Draco’s. 

“Merlin, I’ve wanted to do that for the longest time.” Draco’s heart leaps at Harry’s words, his face flushing with lust as he begins to feel giddy with disbelief.

“You have?” he breaths, unable to make his voice work properly. He’s kissed Harry Potter! Harry Potter is in the enclosure with him, surrounded by ducklings!

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to bite that lip of yours. You know you nibble it when you’re concentrating?” Harry sounds just as breathless as Draco is, and Draco worries that if one of them doesn’t get a hold of themselves they’ll end up passing out from asphyxiation. But trivial things like consciousness and breathing doesn’t matter when he can have his lips pressed against Harry’s. Draco tugs Harry back towards him with a growl and seals their lips back together, both men grasping at each other more intensely with every passing second. 

“Stop…” Draco pushes Harry away, gasping much-needed air into his lungs.

“Did I do something—”

“There are just some things ducklings shouldn’t have to see.” Draco smiles as Harry realises what he’s implying. “How about we spend a little more time with the ducklings — I’ve got to feed them anyway — and then we can relocate to my room? Longbottom is at Abbot’s tonight, I believe. We could…talk or something.”

“Yes,” breaths Harry, his face flushed and his pupils lust-blown. “We could talk… or something.”

For some reason, as they both fuss and care for the little birds, Draco thinks that once they get back to his room, there won’t be much talking after all.

Epilogue: Eight Weeks Later

Draco shivers at the sight of the heavy clouds looming overhead and pulls his cloak that little bit tighter around his shoulders. For November, the weather is positively mild, but the air had a chill in it that clung and Draco, not for the first time, worries about how the ducks will fare on their own.

He looks over at where Harry is kneeling next to the enclosure, having what seems to be a conversation about the Giant Squid with Pavoa. Draco really can’t blame him — if any of the ducks is going to have trouble on the lake, it will be Pavoa, with her amazing skill at managing to find danger in even the most safe situations. The thought of something happening to the accident prone duck sends more chills down his spine than all the November wind in the world. 

“Hey, are you ok?” Draco looks over to where Harry’s still kneeling at the enclosure, looking worried. He feels ridiculous admitting it to Harry, but he doesn’t think he can do this today. Maybe not ever. 

“I’m fine. It’s just a bit cold and windy today. It’ll make the water more choppy. Maybe we should do this another day?” He tries to keep his voice even but Harry sees right through it and quickly gets to his feet and wraps his arms loosely around Draco’s waist.

“Come on Draco, it’s hardly going to get any warmer, is it?” The smile Harry gives him is far too knowing and Draco finds himself wondering exactly when they began reading each other’s minds.

“I just...they’re not ready. Maybe next week?” He knows there’s an edge of panic reaching into his voice but he can’t help it. He doesn’t want to let them go next week either. 

“Come on, they’re more than ready.” Harry’s voice is low and soothing in Draco’s ear and he finds himself unconsciously leaning into it. “You can’t keep putting it off.”

“But what if they need me?” Harry pulls back and fixes Draco with an understanding smile.

“Remember what Hagrid said? You’ve taken such good care of them that they’ll stay in the area. There’s food and shelter and, of course, their mummy Draco!” He couldn’t help but scoff at Harry’s recent pet name for him. It was ridiculous and cutesy and he could just imagine his father rolling over in his grave. “They’ll still be here and they’ll still know you. It’s ok to miss them, and we can come down to the lake as often as you like to visit them.” 

“Really?” Draco realises that he’s been so focused on not wanting to let the ducks go, that he’d never thought about the possibilities of visiting. “What about after graduation?”

“What about it?” Salazar, how can Harry frowning be so damn endearing?

“Well, how are we going to see them? We can’t stroll onto school grounds just so we can visit the ducks? Maybe Hagrid can look after them for us?”

“I had this idea actually.” Harry’s tone has taken on a shifty quality, alerting Draco that he quite likely isn’t going to like what’s coming next. “I wasn’t going to say anything today ‘cause I knew you’d be worried about the ducks. It’s probably dumb but hear me out before you go off on one?”

“What have you done now, Potter?” Draco swiftly steps out of Harry’s arms and hoists his best ‘ I’m a haughty pureblood’ look onto his face. 

“Hey, what’re you last naming me for? I haven’t even said what it is yet?”

“Well, looking at your track record…” Draco lets his sentence trail off, knowing that his point has been well made.

“Well, it’s just I was thinking about how I don’t want to leave here. It’s the only place I’ve ever felt at home and I just...I know it’s stupid—” 

Draco, suddenly feeling like an arse, steps back over to Harry and cups his face gently. “It’s not stupid, Harry.”

“Well, I was talking to McGonagall and she said that if I wanted to I could teach DADA. She said that Professor Diggle was just a stand in until she found a more permanent teacher, and I suppose I was thinking that could be me.”

“That sounds awesome!” Draco couldn’t stop the warm grin that was currently spreading across his face at the news, even though he knew he would see Harry less. It was perfect for Harry and whatever made Harry happy was worth the cost. “Do you think they’ll let me visit you though? I suppose we could always meet in Hogsmeade for dinner a couple of times a week?”

“Well, and this is the part where I need you to not be angry with me.” Harry’s words wash over him, leaving him with a feeling of foreboding. Salazar, what could Harry have done now?

“Potter?” 

“Merlin, okay. Just, when she offered me the position I said I couldn’t because I didn’t want to be apart from you. Like at all. Hogwarts might be home, but you’re home too! So she sort of agreed that you could take the Potions position after Slughorn retires this year if you wanted.”

“Potter!” Draco sees Harry wince at the sharpness of his tone, but for the moment he doesn’t care. Bloody Gryffindors.

“I know, I’m nothing but a meddling Gryffindor with no sense of propriety and all the other rot you like to accuse me of. It’s just, I’ve just got you and I don’t want to lose you, not even for a minute, not even so I can stay at Hogwarts.”

Harry looks so earnest, his words are so heartfelt, that Draco thaws within seconds. He doesn’t want to be without Harry either, and he certainly doesn’t care what he does as long as it involves Potions. Suddenly unable to help himself, Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and presses their foreheads together.

“Well...it would mean that we could visit with the ducks whenever we wanted...and I was thinking of pursuing a career in potions…”

“You mean—”

“Yes, Harry, I’ll take the stupid job and you can teach Defence and we’ll have highly unusual picnic lunches with the ducks.” The giddy smile Harry bestows upon him is contagious and, before he knows it, they’re both grinning like loons at the thought of spending their lives together with their ducks.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Scarhead.” 

The kiss they share is the most soft, the most tender, of all the kisses they’ve shared thus far. Draco can feel it tingle from his lips right down to his toes. After a moment, Harry pulls away and takes Draco’s hand, a new spring in his step.

“So, shall we escort our feathered friends to their new lodgings?” Draco nods in agreement, seemingly unable to find any words to fit the feelings bouncing around inside his chest. They open the enclosure and, slowly, happily, they begin to walk down towards the lake, eight large beige coloured ducks waddling behind them in their wake.