#_melodic_

"Mother loves birds—she had a huge book about them, and she would read me passages every night before bed when I was younger.” “Really?” Draco sees Potter from the corner of his eye as he turns his head to glance at Draco. Draco resists the urge to turn and face him fully, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the sky. “Your mother doesn’t seem like the type.” “The type to enjoy bird watching? What qualifies a person to be the type to have a hobby?” “I don’t know,” Potter mumbles. “I guess it makes sense. You did have all those peacocks.” “Ugh, not the peacocks,” Draco groans. “I hated those things, they were terribly mean.” “Did they insult your hair? It was pretty awful when you used to slick it back.” “Oh shut it, Potter.” Draco can’t help the small smile that creeps across his face.

“So you’re protecting them?” Potter asks incredulously. His disbelief is palpable and Draco bites the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from saying something he’ll regret. “Don’t sound so shocked, Potter.” “I’m not—okay, maybe a little bit.” “Is it such a strange notion that I might put the welfare of others before my own? Who else is going to look out for them? They need someone to keep them safe.” “You make it sound like you’re some kind of hero. Saviour of the dark side.” Potter’s voice drips sarcasm but oddly enough Draco’s doesn’t feel slighted. He almost likes the sound of the mock title Potter has given him; if anything, it’s lightened the tension between them just a bit. “Maybe I am.” Draco shrugs, his lips quirking up despite himself. “You don’t own the market on saviours, you know.”