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Harry and Sirius :) Oh well…

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One second Harry is getting his change from the ice cream cart and in the next, he hears a loud, a really loud splash from behind him.

He turns.

Padfoot is emerging from rippling water, black fur completely soaked and dripping, his head and body so completely and utterly wet and sloppy that Harry can do nothing but laugh. Wild, reckless laughter that soon turns into giggling. Padfoot steps out of the fountain and shakes himself thoroughly, letting out a short, disgruntled bark.

Harry clutches his side, stitched and aching from laughing—so hard that even tears have started to form. His one hand is still holding the ice lolly he bought, which has started to melt and drip. “Aha—did you fall in there?”

Padfoot growls and shakes himself dry again, bits of water flying out to Harry’s face. “Ewww. That's so disgusting of you, Padfoot.”

He stops. Gives Harry a look. Harry doesn't know what it means so he sticks out his tongue and sucks on his lolly, and just in time remembers to pull out the camera and snap a picture of an unaware Padfoot, soaked in front of the fountain.

He's sticking it in Hagrid’s album for sure.

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First Restaurant

for @padfootastic who prompted: slice of life with Harry and Sirius.

Harry and Sirius’s first posh magical restaurant.

Grand chandeliers and warm-glowing lanterns. Flowers, white and pink, decorating ceilings; paintings and portraits covering every inch of the walls. Their booth is spacey; a wooden table between comfortable wine-red seats.

There is a portrait on the wall beside them, an old witch wearing heavy, sparkly necklaces. “Welcome to booth thirty one!” she greets with a wrinkly smile. “My name is Celina. The restaurant is named after me, the daughter of the Founder. Pleased to meet you young gentlemen.”

Harry nods at her, eyes wide as he takes in the slow music, beautiful landscape paintings, the laughter and chatter and aroma floating all around him.

It’s more like he has entered a different world, a timeless place, than a very posh restaurant. Sirius laughs when Harry tells him that. “It’s a bit much, I know. You might like the food though—if they are as good as before.”

“Of course they are!” The witch chimes in, a bit indignant.

A waiter comes to their table and after introducing himself, sets two large leather files. “The menu, sirs.”

Harry flips the pages in the menu slowly, eyeing all the pictures of mouthwatering food. Steam rises from a soup. A tumbler of iced cocktail sweats. A knife cuts a steak.

There are cuisines he doesn’t even recognise. So when the waiter returns with a notepad, Harry leaves the food ordering to Sirius, mind spinning with all the options.

The food comes by slowly. Bite-sized stuff called ‘amuse-bouche’. Soups. Appetizers. Salads and condiments. Cheese platters. Fish. Harry thinks the waiters are going to serve the food one by one, some sort of scheme to make them stay as long as possible, and has resigned himself to that, when three waiters arrive with dishes of food floating ahead and behind them, like a sizzling and steaming parade. The table creaks under the weight of all the dishes and Harry gapes as the waiters recite the food names. His stomach growls.

“We're going to eat this all?”

“Nah, I think we should just stare at it,” Sirius quips with an amused smile.

Harry huffs and digs in.

Flavour and warmth bursts in his mouth. The food continues to be delicious, even better than Hogwarts (except they don’t serve such rich dishes there) with Sirius’s taste being most supreme.

As Harry eats, Sirius takes pictures. At first, Harry thought the occasional flash was just a trick of the eye, but as it continues, he looks around and finally narrows his eyes at Sirius. He takes even a picture of Harry’s suspicious face, laughing.

“You must try the cheesecake for dessert, dear,” the witch in the portrait says. “A recipe of my own making.”

Harry, who has only heard of cheesecakes from Vernon’s posh office parties, politely declines, imagining a thick slice of white and salty cheese-cake. Chocolate cake, rich brown sweet goodness, tastes so much better.

A flash on his chocolate-covered mouth.

“Sirius.” Harry crosses his arms. “I’m going to banish the embarrassing ones, I promise you.”

“I’m going to permanently stick them on the fridge if you even dare.”

Harry sticks out his tongue and fortunately, Sirius is not in time to take a picture of that.

The waiter returns with the bill and after signing it, Sirius and Harry say goodbye to Celina and the restaurant named after her.

Outside, a refreshing breeze blows. Lamplight slants on the pavement. The street is busy still, people dressed in fashionable robes bustling about.

“So. Did you enjoy?” Sirius asks Harry, his hands in pockets, as they walk to his rented convertible.

“Of course I did!” Harry beams. “It was my first time in a restaurant, and there were so many tasty foods. I really don’t know how I managed to eat them all.”

“It was your first time in a restaurant?” Sirius asks, eyebrows flying on his forehead.

Harry nods. “Yes, and it was great. Thank you. I loved the chocolate cake. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted one so yummy.”

Sirius grins, his eyes bright and warm as he gets into the shiny red convertible. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

The engine purrs. Harry fastens his seatbelt. Soon, they will be on the road, beaming faces, wind slapping their faces and satisfaction seated in their bellies.

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hello hello!! hope you’re doing well :”)

can i request a prompt where it’s just like, domestic fluff max- harry & sirius bonding (like the looking at hagrid’s picture album + sirius telling harry stories thing u mentioned one time, or exploring muggle london together, or just…getting to know each other) pls 🥺

the post you are referring to

i'm good! hope you are too! this is the best prompt ever!! i've also decided to cheat and instead of writing one drabble i've written more than one and i'll be posting them either each day or after a few hours <3

First Restaurant - Harry and Sirius’s first time in a posh magical restaurant.

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Breakfast in Bed at Home

Harry is having—for the first time in his life—breakfast in bed.

drabble for @jensjskdm who prompted me with:

sirius lives post-war and just like soft fluff where harry finally can live with sirius as he promised third year :D

It smells good. Food on the bed. Someone is shaking him awake.

Harry blinks his eyes open, expecting Ron’s bright, ginger-head or Hermione’s soft-worried face peering at him but it’s neither of them. It’s Sirius, if a bit blurry. With his silver eyes and familiar little smile as he says, “Wake up, Harry.”

“You’re still here,” Harry says as he sits up, yawning, mouth parched and stinking, glasses perched on his nose. They’re not in the tent. They’re in Grimmauld, and this is the guest room, two beds pushed together, plates piled with sandwiches and fruits in the middle. How long has it been? He feels completely blank, mind still groggy and dense with the sleep-haze.

“Yes, and I’m not going away any time soon,” Sirius says, leaning on the headboard, shoulders loose. He looks tired in the same way Harry is.

“You’re not?” Perhaps a bit childish of him to ask that, considering he’s an adult and all, but Sirius shakes his head and smiles and says, “We’re family.”

It's as simple as that. Harry nods and scratches his cheek. Maybe it’s the remaining bits of sleep influencing him, but here he feels content. Here, it’s fine. Everything is okay. The world doesn’t matter—all of them are beyond this: family.

Sirius gestures to the plate. “Help yourself.”

The war is over.

He knows there’s a lot left untouched and unspoken, but here, it’s alright to let them be.

He picks up a velvety peach. He’s having—for the first time in his life—breakfast in bed.

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Our Home

also for @jensjskdm 's prompt; sirius lives post-war and soft fluff where harry finally can live with sirius as he promised third year :D

Freshly painted a pale peach, highlighted golden cream by the magicked sunlight. An appealing sight.

Harry wipes sweat off his forehead with a cool rag and tells Sirius, “This looks great.”

Sirius chugs down a whole glass of lemonade before he nods, and grins, eyeing the walls and plush sofas in the re-decorated living room. “Of course it looks great. It’s going to be our home.”

Harry’s t-shirt is drenched with sweat, and a trickle runs down his back. Sirius has long since discarded his.

“Our home,” says Harry. “I like the sound of that.”

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Breakfast in Bed at Home

Harry is having—for the first time in his life—breakfast in bed.

drabble for @jensjskdm who prompted me with:

sirius lives post-war and just like soft fluff where harry finally can live with sirius as he promised third year :D

It smells good. Food on the bed. Someone is shaking him awake.

Harry blinks his eyes open, expecting Ron’s bright, ginger-head or Hermione’s soft-worried face peering at him but it’s neither of them. It’s Sirius, if a bit blurry. With his silver eyes and familiar little smile as he says, “Wake up, Harry.”

“You’re still here,” Harry says as he sits up, yawning, mouth parched and stinking, glasses perched on his nose. They’re not in the tent. They’re in Grimmauld, and this is the guest room, two beds pushed together, plates piled with sandwiches and fruits in the middle. How long has it been? He feels completely blank, mind still groggy and dense with the sleep-haze.

“Yes, and I’m not going away any time soon,” Sirius says, leaning on the headboard, shoulders loose. He looks tired in the same way Harry is.

“You’re not?” Perhaps a bit childish of him to ask that, considering he’s an adult and all, but Sirius shakes his head and smiles and says, “We’re family.”

It's as simple as that. Harry nods and scratches his cheek. Maybe it’s the remaining bits of sleep influencing him, but here he feels content. Here, it’s fine. Everything is okay. The world doesn’t matter—all of them are beyond this: family.

Sirius gestures to the plate. “Help yourself.”

The war is over.

He knows there’s a lot left untouched and unspoken, but here, it’s alright to let them be.

He picks up a velvety peach. He’s having—for the first time in his life—breakfast in bed.

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in a world where Sirius raises Harry 🏠

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okay remember harry’s dreams about a flying motorbike?

one of my dearest hcs is that sirius used to take toddler harry out on his flying bike, particularly when he was being fussy or refusing to sleep.

(a frantic james would mirror call him, begging for help because no one except sirius can calm harry down when he’s in strops like this)

he’d wrap him in a baby sling across his chest, take him high above the clouds, and point out the different stars & constellations w associated myths.

harry would fall asleep in minutes.

in the middle of a war, it was the most peaceful sirius ever felt

(anyone who knew—and when harry finds out post-poa—the first question is always ‘how tf did ur parents allow that?’ but you need only look at the way sirius was around his godson for the answer. he was so painfully tender, so protective that james & lily knew there was no safer place for their kid to be)

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omg this was so good!! 😍

It was a funny twisty sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach and Harry wasn't exactly sure he had felt it before. An entirely new sense of dread or anxiety or both was churning around his insides alongside his breakfast as soon as the post arrived and went straight to Harry.

He knew what they were before he could open the post. Middle of July, Harry wasn't expecting anything else.

Ministry owl.

Ministry envelope.

OWL results.

Sirius pretended to make himself busy, fixing another cup of tea, wiping the kitchen counter, while Harry sat with the envelope in his hands trying to pretend he was totally cool and totally confident.

Because it didn't matter, right? Two years ago, Harry would've said it didn't matter, loudly and boldly and he would've been right. But so much had changed and now Harry had a home, with wallpaper and bookends and a godfather who had a conversation with him at the beginning of summer about study habits.

You're way behind, kid, and it's not your fault. But you know, maybe now since Voldemort isn't...breathing down your neck and you're not living with a sense of impending doom, we can think about school?

Harry had groaned initially. And had moaned even louder when after a failed History of Magic exam beginning of term, Sirius called him on the mirror to let him know he'd be keeping a closer eye on his marks and Harry had to endure a long "conversation" about actually doing his assignments and not just skating by on his good looks.

"It's not going to bite you, Harry," Sirius said from where he was leaning against the counter, cup of tea in his hands, "Nor is it going to open itself."

"Feels like it should."

"Like a Howler?" Sirius asked a half-smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Mhmm. Just shout them at us too," Harry told him and took a breath before breaking the seal of the envelope and opening the post. He scanned the results slowly, caught somewhere between feeling pleased and feeling disappointed. What was Sirius expecting?

"Well?"

Harry wordlessly stood up and crossed to Sirius, handing him the results. He shifted from foot to foot, watching as Sirius read the paper.

It didn't matter. Except now it did.

It didn't matter. Except when Harry came home for the winter holidays and got to tell Sirius how well he did on the Transfiguration midterm. Because his godfather would say I'm so proud of you and Harry got to choose where they went to dinner.

It didn't matter. Except now, because Harry finally had an adult who actually cared how well he did in school. Who cared if he was learning. Who cared if he understood magic and could use it to protect himself. Who cared at all.

"Can you say something?" Harry asked, suddenly irritated though he was looking down at their bare feet. Sirius had the hairiest feet Harry had ever seen, and a big toe twice the size of his others. Harry made fun of him for it when they went to the seaside.

They're flippers Sirius. I think your ancestors forgot to follow through and gave you the ugliest feet in the world...

Harry felt Sirius's hand gently lift his chin up so he could meet his godfather's eyes.

"Well done, my love."

"But there's an A!" Harry nearly whined, unable to stop himself. "How is that good"

"Did you try? Did...you do the very best you could in History of Magic? In all your classes?"

"Well, yeah."

Late nights.

Revision guides.

Actually reading the textbooks.

"Then well done, my love," Sirius repeated and the twisting feeling in his stomach shifted into something that glowed. Warm. Shining. Bright. He watched as Sirius waved his wand to stick the OWL results to the fridge, and grabbed a quill from the counter to doodle tiny hearts around the margins. Harry laughed. Harry rolled his eyes. But Harry couldn't help but stare at the scores for a bit longer.

Well done.

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“you should’ve been in bed three hours ago”

“But Padfoot!” Harry cries out in response. “It’s my last night!”

Sirius chuckles and ruffles Harry’s hair before settling back against the pillows propped up against the headboard. “I know, kiddo. That’s why I’m letting you stay up until the wee hours of the morning. But I’ll probably regret that when I have to resort to evil tactics to wake you up tomorrow. Hopefully you make the train on time, and it doesn’t leave without you. It’s still your turn by the way. Has been for the past five minutes.”

Harry sticks his tongue out at his godfather before returning his gaze to the chessboard in front of him. “I’d never miss the train. You wouldn’t let me,” he mutters as he moves his bishop. 

Sirius chooses to ignore the snark and instead immediately retaliates with his rook. Harry pouts and props his chin in his hands, intensely staring at the board. There’s no sound for a few minutes, except for the crunching of crisps and opening of sweets. Crumbs and empty wrappers litter the bed.

“Padfoot?” Harry asks, his voice quiet. 

“Yes?” Sirius responds, slightly distracted. He’s valiantly trying and failing to open a new package of Chocolate Cauldrons. 

“I’m scared,” Harry whispers. Sirius immediately ceases his war with the snack and looks at Harry, who’s steadfastly looking at the chess board and refusing to look up.

“What do you have to be scared of?” Sirius questions softly. Harry lets out a deep sigh, and Sirius knows he’s been holding in worries for a long time. 

“What if no one likes me? What if I fail my classes? What if I don’t make any friends?” 

“Oh, Harry,” Sirius breathes out. His arms ache with the need to wrap Harry in an embrace and provide some physical comfort, but Harry has recently entered the “I’m eleven years old and therefore no one can touch me” phase, which only broke Sirius’ heart a little bit. He stays where he is but slowly extends out a hand, holding it palm up. An offering.

Harry reaches out and laces their fingers together. Sirius gives his hand a squeeze, internally cheering at the touch.

“You have absolutely nothing to be worried about,” Sirius says firmly. “You’re a kind, smart, and funny boy. You’ve already started looking at your books, which is more than I could say for myself. And you know Neville already, remember? He’s your friend, right?”

Harry nods glumly. “Yeah. But what if he gets sorted into a different House and finds better people to hang out with?”

“I don’t know how he can find a better person when the very best one is sitting right in front of me,” Sirius replies. Harry gives him a small smile. “And you know you can be friends with people from different Houses right? In fact it’s encouraged.” Harry nods, but his face remains somber. Sirius plows on, determined to return the cheer to his face. “You’re about to meet so many nice and wonderful kids, Harry. They’re just waiting to be friends with you. You’ve got the world at your fingertips in terms of possible friendships, kiddo. Don’t close yourself off yet by being frightened.”

Harry’s face starts to look a little brighter. His fingers are still clutched in Sirius’ hand, warm and solid. Sirius savors the touch. He won’t have it for the next few months. 

“You are amazing,” Sirius announces matter-of-factly. He leans over and taps Harry’s nose with his free finger three times. It works its magic just like it did when Harry was an infant; Harry giggles, and the sound warms Sirius more than the fire crackling in the master bedroom hearth. “And you’re friends will be just as great. And you’re brilliant at magic, so you’ll probably be top of your year without even trying much. Even History of Magic although Binns might bore you to death. Got it?”

Harry nods, this time with more energy. Eventually Sirius can’t take it anymore.

“Good. Now come over,” Sirius pats the space next to him. Harry scrambles over, and Sirius slings an arm around his shoulder. Harry leans his head against him, and Sirius just relishes. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” Harry whispers, his voice muffled by Sirius’ pajama shirt.

Sirius feels his eyes burn and blinks rapidly to prevent anything that’ll make this transition harder for Harry. “I’ll miss you too, love. More than anything. But you’ll see me at Christmas remember? I bet you’ll be bursting with stories and adventures to tell me. And you can mirror me whenever you want. No matter the time.”

Harry simply snuggles in closer to Sirius, and the two sit, leaning on each other until they’re lulled to sleep by the crackling fire and Hedwig’s soft hoots.

[snufluffles]

hi i posted a little prongsfoot thing. it has a baby harry cameo, lots of affection, and freaked-out-but-very-good-godfather sirius who thinks he messed up along with a cheeky james taking care of him.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38020531

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But At Least the War Is Over [Chapter 1/23]

read on ao3

summary: He sits in the hard white chair next to the bed and curls in on himself as he watches Lupin’s chest rise and fall. Lupin looks younger, somehow, unconscious like this, his persistently furrowed brow smoothed out in sleep.

“Hey,” Harry whispers awkwardly. “The war is over,” he says to Lupin, and then exhales softly. “The war is over.”

——————————————

After the war, it's hard to explain.

It's hard to explain because Harry doesn't feel like anything’s actually over. It doesn't feel like the end of the war that killed his parents. Merlin, he literally killed the person who murdered his parents and he doesn’t feel any sense of vindication or satisfaction or closure.

Honestly, somewhere underneath the numbness of shock blanketing him, it feels like it was… just another chore. It feels like he just took out the trash, or washed the dishes after dinner, or cleaned out the hall closet, and any moment now Aunt Petunia will come pointing her bony finger at him and saying, ‘You, Boy, better move along before Vernon comes in and makes your life very hard!’

It feels like the end of something, yes, the end of so much suffering at the hands of Voldemort, but the beginning of something even worse— because if Harry has learned anything, it is that things can always get worse. And it is this realisation, most of all, that has Harry sitting in the rubble of the only place he's ever called home, holding onto Hermione's hand like it's a lifeline as he stares at nothing.

“I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do now,” Harry announces to the stale air.

“Maybe you're not supposed to do anything,” Hermione replies.

Harry ducks his head. “I hope Ron's all right. I hope… I hope they're all all right. Well, of course they're not— it’s ridiculous to think that they would be, given—”

Hermione interrupts him. “Please don't send yourself into a spiral like this. Don't do this to yourself. Fred’s death was not your fault.”

Harry feels the frayed edges of his mind knot together into the first semblance of definitive emotion. “How do you know that, Hermione? How do you know what's my fault and what isn't? I walked into that forest ready to die. I was supposed to die. Dumbledore— I thought—” he doesn't know how to finish the sentence. Doesn’t know how to explain that the deepest betrayal was from the kind old man he had near-worshipped, then loved, then grieved. “I was raised to die, Hermione, and I didn't, so other people paid the price.”

Hermione releases his hand and stands up, furious. “No, Harry, that's not how this works. I know you're hurting, but you can't make yourself a martyr. Fred— he died before you ever went to that Forest.” Her voice lowers. “So did Sirius. None of this was your fault. Yes, you were a part of this war, but we all were. We all sacrificed and we all were catalysts and we all were pawns in a game between Voldemort and— I don't even know what, Harry. I don't know what.”

Her tone softens and she looks down at him thoughtfully, dried blood dragged along the precipice of her chin.

continue reading

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The summer after POA in which Sirius was freed and took custody of Harry: September 1st rolls around after a great summer getting to know each other and bond, and Sirius teases and smirks “You’ll miss me, won’t you? I know you will, right?” And Harry just stubbornly denies it and sasses back “No I won’t, old man.” “Yes you will.” “No I won’t.” Back and forth.

yes

And i raise you. A much younger harry in a raising harry world having "miss you" and "love you" competitions with sirius.

"Miss you"

"Miss you more"

"Miss you the mostest!"

"Miss you times 500"

"Miss you TIMES A BILLION TRILLION AND 16"

"okay you win, but i get to love you the most. Non negotiable."

[snufluffles]

Fanfic Ask Game (the movie, the sequel)

In celebration of me actually working on a fic, I made y’all an ask game instead of continuing to work on that fic. Pls enjoy.

💖 What do you like most about your own writing?

😐 What embarrasses you most about your own writing?

👻 What is one WIP you think you may never pick back up?

👀 Do you have any WIPs that you would never let see the light of day? If yes, what are they about?

📥 What is your fave fic to receive comments/messages on?

✏️ Do you write every day?

🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP.

🏅 What is something you recently felt proud of in regard to your writing (finished a fic, actually planned for once, etc).

😈 Is there anything you enjoy doing that you think your readers hate?

🌙  What time of day do you prefer to write? Why?

👖 Are you a planner, plantser, or pantser? Is it consistent?

📊 Current number of WIPs

👨‍👧‍👧 Do you tell people in real life that you write fic? 

🌝 Who is one character you haven’t yet written for that you would like to?

📝 What is one growth area you have for your writing?

📚 Do you read your own fic?

🌈 What inspired you to write [insert fic here]?

🤔 What is the hardest part of writing fic?

🧠 What’s an idea you have that you can’t quite call a WIP yet?

💻 Do you do research for your fics? What’s the deepest dive you’ve done?

✨ Choose three adjectives to complement your own writing.

💭 What is a headcanon you have about your own work?

🍰 Name one of your fave comfort fics (doesn’t have to be your all time fave).

👩‍🏭 If one of your fics was going to get you arrested, which one and why?

⏰ Do you spend more time reading fic, writing fic, or do you do both equally?

💋 [Freeform - what is something you want to know about one of poster’s fics?]

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based off a thing my family used to do when i was young (except i took out the ‘hitting the inanimate object to teach them a lesson’ part bc i feel like sirius wouldn’t want harry to think that violence is the answer lol)

x

“Er,” Remus blinked at the scene in front of him, “Padfoot, what on earth are you doing?”

Sirius, who’d been kneeling and staring at the wall with a stern—sterner than anything Remus’d seen on him before—look on his face, turned to face him. Beside him, Harry was clutching onto his knee and trying to imitate his godfather’s expression- but failing adorably.

“Giving this naughty wall a telling off, of course,” he answered as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Remus blinked. “And…may I ask why?”

“It hitted me, Moony!” Harry cried out, instead.

His confusion must’ve shown on his face because Sirius stepped in, “Harry was innocently walking along, but the wall came in front of him, and he bumped his nose against it, didn’t you, baby?”

Harry, recognising his cue, started nodding vigorously. “Moony, ‘ook!” He pointed towards his face where, if he squinted hard enough, he could see a slight red tint spread across the bridge of his nose. His eyes were significantly more red-rimmed.

“Oh. That’s, uh, that’s not good,” he offered, when Harry kept looking at him expectantly.

“No, it’s not,” Sirius cut in, “Which is why we must tell the wall it was being bad.”

He turned back to the wall. “Now look here, you. Our Harry is a fine, upstanding gentleman—“

“Entah’ma’!” Harry repeated forcefully.

“-yes, thank you Harry- of this household, and it’s not right for you to hurt him this way.”

“Bad ‘all!” Harry’s squeaky little voice scolded, and Remus had to turn away for a second lest his smile offend the boy.

“Absolutely, bad wall. It’s not proper to go around hurting people, you hear?” Sirius wagged a finger at the silently standing cream-coloured wall, “I won’t punish you since it was your first time but I hope you learn your lesson and don’t go around hurting innocent little kids next time.”

He turned to Harry, eyebrows raised as if asking ‘Was that enough?’

At Harry’ nod, he smiled fondly, “Now, how about some waffles? You’ve been such a brave boy, and brave boys get rewards, don’t they?”

“ ‘aufus! ‘aufus! ‘aufus!” Harry cheered, letting go of his trouser leg to go running into the kitchen, shouting joyfully all the way.

Sirius got up, wincing a little as he straightened his leg.

“Scolding the wall? Really?”

Sirius shrugged ruefully, “I sure didn’t want to re-enact the Walburga and Orion routine of dealing with recalcitrant children. And Prongs told me his parents did this for him. Felt right to continue the tradition, if I’m being honest.”

“James’ parents scolded inanimate objects when he got hurt?” Remus snorted, “Well, that would certainly explain his ego in school.”

Sirius grinned in return, “Doesn’t it just? Now let’s go, we have an impatient toddler waiting for us to provide sustenance.”

“And whose fault is that?” Remus grumbled, but followed along dutifully. He wasn’t going to miss out on waffles—definitely not Sirius’ waffles which were always little pillows of soft, chocolate heaven.

[snufluffles]

God only knows what I’d be without you