gosh i hope i didn't forget anything

Imagine Person A of your OTP feeding the ducks. When Person B comes out to join A, the ducks notice all the bread that B brought and promptly engulf B in a mass of feathers and quacks. From that day on, whenever they spot B, the ducks follow him/her in hopes of more food. OT3 Bonus: Person C teases B about this, referring to the ducks as “Person B’s brood.” Because I can’t do anything for dhr week
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There’s a pond near the flat they share and Draco avoids it at all costs. First of all, it’s filthy and disgusting. The water is murky and greenish and he’s positive something lurks down there, something that can only haunt children’s nightmares and looks like a mixture of Potter and Weasel.
Hermione, for some reason, likes the ridiculous pool of water. She always insists that she and Draco ought to visit the park as much as they can and took a liking to the ugly ducks that swim atop the contamination.
Yes. That’s right. Ducks. Ducks, of all creatures. Today, Hermione is dressing up to go to the park and feed said ducks.
Why do they have to feed the ducks? Honestly, they ought to feed themselves. They are ducks. They have no reasons not to, being animals, not even pets. Not that Hermione seems to think that, because she comes downstairs with her favorite buttery yellow coat, blue knit cap pulled over her wayward curls, tapping the tile floor with magenta rain boots and the largest smile on her face in anticipation.
She’s taking a few slices of bread and putting them into her purse, while Draco stands watching her and leaning against the wall, eyebrows raised.
“Granger, they’re ducks.” He’s probably said this statement so many times, that it’s familiar on his tongue, and he crosses his arms.
Draco,” Hermione emphasizes his name, “They are not just ducks. Don’t you like to go visit them?”
“No.”
“Pretend you do, then.”
“Fuck no.”
Hermione scowled at her boyfriend but shoved the loaf of bread into Draco’s chest. “Here. We’re feeding the ducks, and you’re going to give them bread today.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Granger, I refuse to give ducks bread. I’m a high standard, Ministry official-”
“-you are also my boyfriend, and that’s why you’re feeding the ducks.”
Draco huffs and mumbles under his breath but accepts the slab of bread without another question and follows Hermione out the door.
He’s sure that he complains on the way there so many times, and hangs back when Hermione greets fellow park goers, but when she leans next to the putridity water and coos at the offending, white-green-whatever-fucking-yellow-color animals, Draco’s sure she’s gone insane.
“Draco, the bread.”
Draco rolls his slate colored eyes dramatically but takes out the entire loaf of bread, holding it out towards the pond.
That exact moment was the worst mistake of his life.
Forget becoming a Death Eater. This trumped everything in his past.
The ducks attacked him.
Yes, the ducks came in a mass of feathers and quacks and bit (did they have teeth, for Salazar’s sake? It bloody hurt!) anywhere they could, all over his worn cotton sweater and his slacks and any exposed skin, and yes, all the bread was devoured.
“Draco!” Hermione’s hands clasped over her mouth like she was worried, but she was laughing, laughing so hard that she was crumbling to her side.
The tornado of quacking, imbecilic creatures kept jumping all over him and Draco falls backward, loosing his balance as the steady stream of noisy animals gab and bite at him until he’s sure that not a single crumb of bread is left on his body.
When they seem satisfied and strut away on their little legs, Draco sits on the hard gray pavement, hair mussed and clothing contumaciously unkempt, with an ornery glare on his face like a stubborn child might have.
Hermione’s still laughing, of course, and Draco’s upset by this entire fiasco and his arms are crossed, reminiscent to earlier, his lips drawn into a haughty pout.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Hermione offered her hand to Draco, still giggling like a young schoolgirl, while Draco accepted her hand but did little else.
Brushing himself off, he grimaces at the pond and brushes his sweater and pans with as much dignity as a man knocked to the ground by a swarm of ducks can, muttering swears under his breath that are completely inappropriate in regard to the pond animals.
Hermione takes his hand in hers and smiles at him, a grin that Draco does not return due to his foul mood.
“Aren’t they sweet?” Hermione looks out to the ducks swimming peacefully as if the incident with Draco never happened.
“Sweet,” Draco scoffs, and he’s ready to keep talking, but Hermione shoots him a glare and he closes his mouth. “Obviously, those menaces are- sweet.” He does let his voice drip with sarcasm, however.
“We’ll come back next week to feed them!” Hermione said excitedly, swinging their clasped hands back and forth.
“Joy,” Draco says, with, yes, even more sarcasm, as they walk.
A week later, the ducks chase Draco around the park in hopes of more bread and he vows to never accompany Hermione to the pond ever again.