"Hold still, you're ruining the measurement."
"I am standing perfectly still, Harry," Remus sighed, looking down at the four-year-old who was currently wrapping a piece of yarn around his ring finger. "What are you even measuring me for?"
"Your ring size," Harry muttered, pulling the yarn tight and frowning in concentration.
Sirius snorted from his place on the sofa, flipping a page of the Daily Prophet. "A ring? Are you getting him one of those plastic ones from Zonko's that squirts ink in your eye? Because I fully support that."
"No," Harry said, tying a messy knot in the yarn. "I'm buying Uncle Moony a wedding ring."
Sirius choked on a laugh. "A wedding ring? For Moony? Who's the lucky bride?"
Harry gave Sirius a deadpan, deeply exhausted stare. "You."
Remus froze, the yarn slipping from his hand. "Harryβ"
"Don't 'Harry' me," the little boy huffed. "I asked Mum why you guys don't have shiny rings like she and Dad do. She said it's because you're 'useless cowards' who don't know how to use your words."
Sirius's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his face suddenly red.
"So I am fixing it," Harry declared. "I am getting the rings. Then you can finally get married and stop sighing at the door every time he leaves the house."
Remus made a high-pitched, strangled noise.
"I do not sigh!" Sirius protested frantically, his face burning. "I was just doing deep breathing exercises! For my health!"
"Mum says it's called 'pining' and that it's embarrassing," Harry pointed out ruthlessly, completely unfazed by the panic radiating off both men. "Now give me your hand. I need your size so we can get this over with. Managing your lives is taking up my whole morning and I still have to draw the invitations before lunch."
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