Fat dick spirit is the new big dick energy

blake kathryn
i don't do bad sauce passes
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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DEAR READER
Cosmic Funnies
One Nice Bug Per Day
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
No title available

Kiana Khansmith
AnasAbdin
we're not kids anymore.
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
d e v o n
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

@theartofmadeline
Keni

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@daria-rys
Fat dick spirit is the new big dick energy
@drarrymicrofic | 575 words | prompt: book
โThat vile hag did it again!โ Draco slapped down a thick book wrapped in an orange dust jacket, the words Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows printed across the front. He flipped the book to show the image of Rita Skeeterโs Muggle persona.
Huffing when Harry didnโt immediately respond, Draco produced a travel mug and a wrapped danish from his pocket. โI got you that tea you love and one of those cheese-filled monstrosities.โ
Harry brushed flecks of wood from the handle of the wand he was crafting. Barely sparing a glance at the book, Harryโs hand snatched the pastry. โWhatโs she done now, love?โ
โShe published a seventh book. Seventh!โ Draco flopped dramatically against the counter.
โJust ignore it. Iโm sure itโll blow over.โ
Draco pouted. โIโm portrayed as a cowardly, pathetic Death Eater who tries to capture you in the Room of Requirement for the snake face bastard.โ
โSurely not!โ
Draco scowled even as the urge welled to run his thumb over the curve of Harryโs upturned lips.
โDoesnโt Skeeter know you faint at the sight of blood? You wouldnโt have made it as a Death Eater.โ Harry pressed close, brushing a kiss across Dracoโs lips.
โShe mocks killing Voldy with a sword.โ
โWell, it was a rather extreme battle move, but it worked in the end.โ Harry remembered the weight of Gryffindorโs sword in his palm, the strain on his muscles as heโd used the blade to deflect spell after spell sent by Voldemort as heโd progressed steadily forward, and the squelching sound the sword had made as Harry embedded it in Voldemort's chest, ending his reign of terror.
โOh no, in the book you kill him with Expelliarmus โ not the sword โ by rebounding his killing curse.โ
โHow the hell would that work?โ
โSomething regarding an all-powerful wand and wand loyalties.โ
โWe need to destroy every copy of that book. Wands donโt work like that!โ
โWhere was this righteous indignation when she was calling me Death Eater scum?โ Draco growled as Harry boxed him against the counter.
โEveryone knows thatโs a lie, love.โ Harry slid his palm around the nape of Dracoโs neck, threading his fingers into the curled strands. โMy shop is going to be a nightmare. You remember how people were after the fourth book โ questioning where their wand cores came from and whom they were connected to. Requesting to see my wand.โ
Dracoโs hand crept around Harryโs back, pulling him flush. โOnly I get to see your wand.โ
โOnly you,โ Harry agreed, kissing his nose. โSoโฆ letโs go destroy this book.โ
โItโs too late.โ Draco sighed dramatically. โOver fifteen million copies already sold.โ
Harry ground his teeth together. โWhy hasnโt the Ministry arrested her for breaking the statute?โ
โShe prints just enough inaccuracies of the magical world to avoid repercussions.โ
โCop-out.โ
Draco pulled Harry in for a kiss, their breath mingling. โThe book is nearly total fiction at this point. At the end, you marry Ginny and have three kids with the most unoriginal names Iโve ever heard.โ
โGuess Blaise will be having a laugh at least.โ Heโd have to send a copy to Blaise and Ginny in Italy.
โDonโt worry, Iโve already forwarded a copy to them. And one to Theo โ heโs not mentioned at all, again.โ
Harry chuckled as he dipped his head into the hollow of Dracoโs throat. Let the wretch publish as many Harry Potter tales as she wanted, Harry had what mattered most โ Draco.
@lqtraintracks thank you for reaching back out to me with so much kindness, even though I completely messed up my first attempt at using this platform ๐
So, here is my original line art for "The Most Splendid Thing", a fanfic that genuinely accompanied me through some very dark hours in hospital waiting rooms.
I loved everything about it, but especially the imagination behind it. Harry with brown skin and beautiful long hair, which I always pictured a little curly. Draco with his tattoos and undercut. And both of them so fierce, full of personality, and completely in character.
The whole story was fucking a-ma-zing, and my only intention was to show my thanks and appreciation. I loved this fic so much that it made me pick up my architectโs tablet to draw people again for the first time in YEARS. It also made me open a Tumblr account ๐คฃ
Anyway, your stories are utterly inspiring, and I cannot stop recommending them. Thank you for sharing them with the world, and I can't wait till the next one โจ๐ช
Looooook at how they gaze at each other!!!! ๐ญ๐ญ๐ญ Their nearness kills me. The tattoos are perfect! I love how Dracoโs shorts have ridden up on that leg just a little bit. Harryโs hair being kinda curly is absolutely how I see it! The fingerless gloves are still murdering me. ๐ฅต
Today has been a roller coaster, mostly of my own making, and Iโm so grateful for your kindness through it. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for drawing this for my story and for sharing it with me. Iโm absolutely in love with it. โค๏ธ๐ซ
I canโt believe itโs canon that Sirius Black literally looked at Severus Snape the way a predator looks at its prey (said by Harry James Potter himself) and this fandom has the audacity to ignore how terribly gay that is. Youโre just cowards.
My entire understanding of Snirius
As a fellow Snirius fan, I have this proposal : Sirius is obsessed with this poet who writes these most beautiful poems on themes of love,guilt, darkness and remorse that resonates with Sirius too. And Severus is obsessed with this witty novelist who is darkly funny and shrewd and the satire is poignant.
The poet is Severus, the novelist is Sirius (both write under psuedonyms).
This would go hard, not gonna lie. Like, imagine it:
One day Severus decided to buy this book; he doesnโt know why: the cover is lame, nothing he would even pick; the title is infuriating and stupid (heโll think, โwho published this? Who let it get this far?") and yet he still picks it up and puts it in his basket alongside other more respectable books. He will do it because he can, because he can do this sort of thing now. He can afford to waste money on a book that most certainly will collect dust on his bookshelf. And he does. And the book does collect dust on his shelf for months and months.
Heโll pass by the shelf and glance at it, the spine with the moronic author's name dragging a roll of his eyes each time. Snuffles Padfoot. Atrocious. But his curiosity would grow. What kind of story can that kind of book tell? What can someone who willingly pick (a sneer as he think about it) Snuffles Padfoot as their pseudonym share? He wonders and walks away.
It takes another month for him to cave. He reads it on a Saturday a fortnight later, because he is free to do as he pleases with his time and with his money. He is free at least on that. Never of his thoughts, never of his guilt and past, but at least he is free in that regard. He is hooked by the time he finishes the second chapter. The story, the flow of the words, itโs not what Severus expects, and before he knows it, he has ordered two more books to complete the trilogy.
And when he devours those, he buys another, because Snuffles Padfoot has a lot to share. He dwells in many genres, unable to stick to one. He is a storm that canโt be contained. Unwilling to chain himself to a predetermined mold. He is unforgiving and dark in one. Witty and satirical in another. In some others, he is a complete romantic and tragic. His best works lay in adventures, betrayals and revenge. And Severus, as mad as it seemed, feels understood by their characters in a way he never thought another person could ever understand him. It is a foolish feeling but he canโt reign them in. Itโs fine, he can let them exist in him, silently.
His life would resume, but his shelf as the years go by, would start to hold more books, most of them with their spines branded by that infuriating name. He would still roll his eyes, but his lips would curl into a ghost of a smile.
And then one day, heโll buy a new release, sit on his chair on Saturday as he has grown accustomed to doing, open it, and in its dedication will be his own poem. A small snippet of Snuffles Padfoot thought about it, on how The Half-Blood Prince has inspired them.
The novel is for him. For the Half-Blood Prince, for Severus.
And he will hold his breath. He will consume. And his next poem is dedicated to them. To Snuffle Padfoot.
Itโs different from what he usually writes. Thereโs no grief, no guilt, no longing for unrequired love. Not on the one meant for them. Hidden in the last page. His editor would raise an eyebrow, but wouldnโt press. It gets published, and Severus doesnโt hold his breath. Doesnโt wait for a reply, because thatโs illogical. And he is not illogical.
But it comes, slow, a year later, in the form of another novel, another dedication. And the back and forth grows. At a snail pace. Two authors connecting through their writing.
The forums grew soon after; their fanbase joined and speculated, and his book sales increased. The poems, their dedications, they get analyzed to a degree that mortifies him. The first cardinal rule of publishing is to not read reviews. It is considered essential for maintaining sanity, focus and productivity. Severus has never had an issue with this rule. And even those low times he had made the mistake of breaking it, he let the hateful words and criticism slide off him like droplets of water. He couldnโt do it for this. And when the โshippingโ startedโฆ It was almost enough to stop him from whatever this was. Some online dwellers said it was โflirting,โ โcourtship.โ He thought they were idiots.
They were just two writers, forming a connection through their work. Finding understanding in the form of art.
He shouldnโt continue to feed the flames of madness.
But then Snuffles Padfoot drops another dedication on a short story, and Severus canโt help himself.
Imagine Sirius. A hardcore fan of THBP buying his latest book and choking on his morning coffee while reading the poem. He, who had found solace in the emotions of grief, remorse, and darkness in every verse, stumbled with the opposite of that. Of seeing his silly pseudonym on a one-line dedication.
Yeah, this would go hard as fuckโgood shit!
severus goes to heaven because he repented.
sirius goes to heaven because all dogs go to heaven.
severus regrets that he repented.
Done by manta
I made a thing for blair ! : )
friendship is magic
a couple Saras_Girl fic recs to heal your cold muddled tummy:
Recalibrate by Saras_Girl | Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/OMC, 20K, E - summary: Sometimes, you need to step back and think about things from a new perspective. Other times, youโve just got to open your eyes to what you needed all along. HPDM 8th-year FILTH. Please see warnings in notes :)
notes: gobbled this up. what a treat, truly, speak of cakes? this is your next best slice with your afternoon tea. it's gentle, sweet, a caress of every aching drarry muscle asking for a warm salve with a healthy dose of smut.
This Summer by Saras_Girl | Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, 39K, T - summary: This is a summery romantic comedy featuring my favourite ensemble cast, in which Harry is confused, Draco is Draco, and Hermione attempts to eat all the things.
notes: listen to the podfic by RattleandHum for a doubled feast on this twisty summer-time twinkle of a fic. really, it's just light, a breezy beach read full of fun with a sneaky little twist. Harry is gone, oh so terribly gone.
Ferret in a tiny scarf ๐
Accidental Delivery
An Accounting
Nine hundred and twelve. The number of days heโd said good morning to Harry Potter in the Ministry Atrium.
Zero. The number of times Harry had acknowledged him.
Seventy-four. The number of times heโd visited the Magical Sports and Games offices.
Zero. The number of times he had actually needed to go there.
Thirty-two. The number of times he had casually asked about Harry in conversation with Hermione.
Zero. The amount of information she had given him.
Fourteen. The number of times he had owled Harry, asking to meet.
One. The number of times Harry had replied.
Three. The number of times he had changed clothes prior to the meeting.
Seventeen. The number of minutes he sat waiting for Harry to arrive.
Twenty-two. The number of times they met before Harry agreed to call it a date.
Forty-eight. The number of dates before he asked Harry to move in.
One. The number of times heโd asked Harry to marry him.
Zero. The number of minutes until they were to be married.
birthdays
now posting: unlikely - a snape raises harry fic Harry had not known his dad had a birthday.
This was not, technically, accurate. He understood that all people had birthdays. He had one himself, the thirty-first of July, which Hagrid made enormous and which the house-elves treated as a national holiday and which his dad acknowledged with new books and a look that was not a smile but was adjacent to one. He understood the concept. He simply had not applied it to Snape, who existed in Harry's mind as a fixed and permanent feature of the universe, like the lake or the castle walls or gravity.
The realization arrived on a Tuesday in December, when Harry was sitting on the potions stool watching his dad grade essays and thinking about nothing in particular.
"Dad."
"Yes."
"When's your birthday?"
The quill paused. It was a brief pause. The kind of pause that happened when Harry asked a question his dad had not prepared for, which was rare, because his dad prepared for most things.
"Why."
"Because people have birthdays."
"An astute observation."
"So when is it."
Severus looked at him. Harry looked back. His feet were swinging because they did not reach the floor from the potions stool, and his chin was on his hands, and his expression was the patient, immovable one he had developed for conversations where his dad intended to redirect and Harry intended not to be redirected.
"January ninth," Severus told him, in the tone of someone disclosing the location of a minor ingredient.
Harry filed this.
He went to the kitchens the next morning.
Pip was polishing a teapot. Pip was always polishing a teapot. Harry had once asked her why and she had explained, with the gravity of someone delivering a professional assessment, that teapots required constant maintenance and that an unpolished teapot was a failing she was not prepared to accept.
"Pip."
"Harry Potter is early." Pip looked at the clock. "Harry Potter is eleven minutes early. Pip has not finished the porridge. The porridge will be ready in four minutes. Pip does not serve unfinished porridge."
"I don't need porridge."
Pip's ears went flat. This was her response to information she found unacceptable.
"I need to learn how to make a cake."
The ears came back up. Slowly. With the cautious attention of a creature assessing whether she had heard correctly and whether, if she had, the implications were as significant as they appeared.
"A cake," Pip repeated.
"For my dad. His birthday is January ninth."
Pip set down the teapot. She set it down with care, the way she handled all objects, but her hands were quicker than usual and her eyes were doing the thing they did when she was recalculating her priorities in real time.
"Pip knows when Professor Snape's birthday is," Pip informed him. "Pip has known for seven years. Pip has prepared a meal on January ninth every year. Professor Snape does not acknowledge it. Pip acknowledges it anyway."
"I want to make him a cake. Not have someone make it. Make it. Myself."
Pip looked at him.
Harry looked at Pip.
The kitchen was warm and smelled of bread and the other house-elves were moving around them, carrying trays and stirring pots and maintaining the infrastructure of the castle's morning, and in the middle of it a seven-year-old boy and an elf stood looking at each other with the mutual understanding of two people who had arrived at the same project from different directions.
"Pip will teach Harry Potter," Pip decided.
"Thank you."
"Pip will teach Harry Potter properly. There will be measurements. There will be technique. Pip does not approve of imprecise baking."
"All right."
"Harry Potter will wash his hands first."
Harry washed his hands.
The cake took four days.
This was not because cakes required four days. This was because Harry's first attempt produced a substance that Pip examined with the expression of a structural engineer assessing a condemned building, and his second attempt rose on one side and sank on the other like a landscape in distress, and his third attempt was, by Pip's assessment, "adequate in theory and inadequate in execution."
Harry did not mind. He came to the kitchens every morning before breakfast, eleven minutes early, and he stood on the step-stool Pip had produced from somewhere and he measured flour and cracked eggs and stirred batter with his tongue between his teeth and his sleeves pushed up and his concentration total.
Pip stood beside him. She did not take over. This was difficult for her. Harry could see the effort it cost, the way her hands twitched toward the bowl when he over-stirred, the way her ears went flat when flour landed on the counter instead of in the measuring cup. She wanted to do it. Doing it was her purpose and her joy and the thing she was built for. But Harry had asked to learn, and Pip had agreed to teach, and teaching meant watching him make mistakes and correcting them with words instead of action, and Pip managed this with the rigid discipline of a creature who had decided her role and would not deviate from it.
"Slower," Pip instructed, on the third morning, watching Harry fold the batter. "Harry Potter is folding, not attacking. The batter is not an enemy."
"It feels like an enemy."
"Batter does not have feelings. Batter has structure. Harry Potter must respect the structure."
Harry folded slower. The batter responded. It smoothed and settled and became, under his hands, the thing it was supposed to be, and the satisfaction of that was immediate and physical in a way he had not expected.
"Good," Pip told him.
The word was small. Pip delivered it with the spare precision of someone who did not use praise lightly and who meant it when she did.
On the fourth morning, the cake came out of the oven level. It was not beautiful. It was slightly lopsided on the left side and the top had cracked in a way that Pip described as "characterful." The colour was right. The texture, when Pip tested it with a skewer, was right. The smell was right, warm and sweet and filling the kitchen with the evidence of four mornings of work.
"Icing," Pip announced.
"Do I have to make that too?"
"Pip will make the icing." Her tone indicated that she had already stretched her forbearance to its structural limit and that icing was where she drew the line. "Harry Potter has done enough."
Harry watched her ice the cake. She did it with the focused economy of a professional, the knife moving in short, precise strokes, the icing arriving on the surface in a smooth, even layer that made Harry's four mornings of effort look presentable.
"Can you write on it?"
"Pip can write on anything."
"Can you write 'Happy Birthday Dad'?"
Pip's hand stopped. The knife hovered above the cake, a thin line of icing suspended in the air, and Pip looked at Harry with an expression he had not seen on her before. Her enormous eyes were bright. Her ears were up. Her mouth was pressed into a line that was holding steady against an emotion that wanted to be larger than the line could contain.
"Pip can write that," Pip confirmed, and her voice was smaller than usual, and she turned back to the cake and wrote it in careful, precise letters, and she did not look at Harry while she did it because she was a professional and professionals did not cry while icing cakes.
POV: Snape
Severus returned to the quarters at half four on the ninth of January, which was a Thursday, which was an ordinary Thursday, which he intended to spend the way he spent all Thursdays: grading, reading, and ignoring the fact that the date had any particular significance.
He opened the door.
The quarters smelled different.
This was the first thing he registered. The quarters smelled of vanilla and sugar and the faint, warm residue of baking, and Severus stood in the doorway with his hand on the door and his senses cataloguing the anomaly before his mind had formed the question.
Harry was at the desk. He was sitting in Severus's chair, which he was not supposed to sit in and which he sat in whenever Severus was not present, as though the chair belonged to both of them and they had agreed to a time-share arrangement that had never been discussed. His legs were drawn up. His chin was on his knees. He was watching Severus with the expression of a seven-year-old who had done a thing and was now waiting to find out whether the thing was acceptable.
On the desk, where the essays usually were, was a cake.
Severus looked at the cake.
The cake was lopsided on the left side. The top had a crack running through it, partially concealed by a layer of icing that was smooth and professional in a way the cake itself was not, which meant the icing had been done by someone with skill and the cake had been done by someone without it. The letters across the top were small and precise and written in a hand that was not Harry's.
Happy Birthday Dad
Severus looked at the cake. He looked at Harry. He looked at the cake again.
"You made this," he observed.
"Pip helped."
"Pip iced it."
"Pip iced it. I made the rest."
Severus looked at the crack. At the lopsided left side. At the flour he could now see on Harry's sleeve, a faint dusting that Harry had attempted to brush off and had not entirely managed. At the small burn on Harry's right index finger, which was new, which had not been there at breakfast.
"It took four days," Harry told him.
Severus pulled his other chair around to the desk. He sat down. He looked at the cake and he did not say what the cake was doing to his chest, because saying it would give it a shape he was not prepared for, and because the cake was already saying it, and because his son was seven years old and had spent four mornings in the kitchens learning to bake for a birthday Severus had never intended to celebrate.
"I will need a knife," Severus told him.
Harry's face broke open. The smile was not small. It was not managed. It was the full, devastating, unreserved grin that arrived without permission and that Severus had no defence against and had never, in seven years, developed one.
Harry scrambled off the chair. He ran to the kitchen. He came back with a knife and two plates and two forks, carried in the careful, deliberate way of a child transporting objects he understood were important.
Severus cut two slices. He placed one on Harry's plate. He placed one on his own. He picked up his fork.
The cake was dense. The left side was slightly undercooked. The right side was slightly overcooked. The crack ran through the middle of his slice, a visible fault line in the structure.
It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
He did not say this. He ate the slice and he cut a second and he ate that, and Harry ate his slice watching him, with flour on his sleeve and a burn on his finger and the green eyes that would never stop being her eyes, and Severus ate the cake his son had made him and he did not say what it tasted like.
Harry settled back in the chair. His legs drawn up. His chin on his knees. His shoulder against the armrest, angled toward Severus, the unconscious lean of a child who oriented himself by proximity.
"Happy birthday, Dad," Harry told him.
Severus set down his fork. He looked at the plate. He looked at the cake, half-eaten, lopsided, cracked, iced in Pip's precise hand with his son's words.
"Thank you," he replied.
It was insufficient. It was trying to contain a thing he could not name and had not asked for and would not, if given the choice, return.
Harry smiled at him. The small one. The quick one. The private one.
The quarters were warm. The cake sat between them. January ninth had, without his consent, become a day that mattered.
He ate another slice. [next]
Diplomacy
POV: Snape
The playdates had become a fixture.
Severus did not call them playdates. Narcissa called them playdates. Severus called them scheduled supervisory obligations, which was accurate and which Narcissa ignored with the serene efficiency she brought to all of his terminology.
They were four. Both of them. Draco had turned four in June with a party at the Manor that involved twelve children and a peacock and what Narcissa described as a "small incident" with the cake that she did not elaborate on. Harry had turned four in July with Hagrid, a lopsided treacle tart, and a hand-knitted hat from Minerva that was green and slightly too large and which Harry wore for three weeks without removing it.
They were four and they had opinions.
Harry's opinions were quiet and structural. He knew what he liked. He liked the potions stool. He liked the lake. He liked Pip. He liked the rug in front of the fire and the way the water-light moved on the ceiling and the specific weight of Severus's arm when Severus carried him, which Severus did less now because Harry was four and four-year-olds walked, but which still happened when Harry was tired or when Harry wanted it or when Harry simply raised his arms without saying anything and Severus picked him up before deciding to.
Draco's opinions were loud and architectural. Draco knew what he wanted. He wanted the best chair. He wanted the first biscuit. He wanted to be the one who decided what game they were playing and in what order and with what rules, and he communicated these desires with the composed authority of a very small person who had been raised in a house with peacocks and a father who confirmed facts rather than asked questions.
The difficulty was that Harry did not care about Draco's opinions.
This was not hostility. Harry was not hostile. Harry was agreeable and patient and warm in the way of a child who had been raised by someone who was none of those things and had arrived at them independently. Harry simply did not recognize Draco's authority over the rug and its contents. Harry occupied the rug the way he occupied the castle: with the total, unconcerned belonging of someone who had been here first and did not intend to negotiate.
This drove Draco mad.
"It's my turn," Draco informed Harry, on the rug, at half past eleven, regarding a toy broomstick that Narcissa had brought and which both of them wanted and neither of them was willing to relinquish.
"You had a turn," Harry replied.
"I had a short turn."
"You had a turn."
"It wasn't long enough."
Harry looked at him. The look was steady and patient and contained the specific immovable quality that Severus recognised because he saw it in the mirror, the quality of a person who had arrived at a position and was not going to leave it.
"No," Harry told him.
Draco's cheeks went pink. This was the Draco tell, the one Severus had catalogued at seven months: the flush that arrived when Draco encountered a wall he could not charm his way through. His chin lifted. His jaw set. His hands, which had been at his sides, moved to the broomstick.
Harry's hands tightened.
Draco pulled.
Harry pulled back.
"Draco," Narcissa warned, from the settee, with the measured tone of a mother who had identified the trajectory of the situation and was offering one opportunity for course correction.
Draco did not take the opportunity. Draco was four and the broomstick was in his hands and the boy holding the other end had told him no, and Draco Malfoy at four did not have the infrastructure to process no with grace. He pulled harder. Harry held on. The broomstick, which was a toy and not built for the tensile demands being placed on it, creaked.
Severus set down his tea.
"Harry," he instructed. "Release theโ"
Harry released the broomstick. This was not compliance. Severus recognized this immediately because he knew his son, and his son's version of releasing a contested object involved releasing it at the exact moment his opponent was pulling hardest, which meant Draco stumbled backward three steps, hit the edge of the rug, and sat down hard on the stone floor with the broomstick in his lap and an expression of total indignation.
Harry looked at him from across the rug.
His face was not smug. Smugness was not a thing Harry did at four. His face was the neutral, patient, slightly interested face of a boy who had solved a problem using physics and was observing the result.
Draco stood up.
His cheeks were red. His hair, which was always precise because Narcissa ensured it, was not precise. His chin was up and his hands were in fists and he crossed the rug with the focused velocity of a very small person who had been wronged and intended to address it.
He tackled Harry.
It was not a punch. It was not a shove. It was a full-body commitment, the launch of a four-year-old who had decided that the situation required a physical response and had not considered the logistics of the physical response before initiating it. He hit Harry at approximately chest height and they both went down, a tangle of limbs and robes and indignation, rolling across the rug in a way that was not violent but was deeply committed.
"Draco Lucius Malfoy," Narcissa announced, rising from the settee.
Severus was already standing. Not because he was concerned. He was standing because it was a reflex, the reflex of a man who had spent four years being responsible for a small body and whose legs moved when that body hit the floor regardless of context.
Harry was on his back. Draco was on top of him, pinning him with the determination of someone who had committed to a strategy and was not going to abandon it. Harry's hands were on Draco's shoulders. Not pushing. Holding. His expression was one of mild surprise, the expression of a person who had not anticipated this development and was evaluating it in real time.
"Get off," Harry instructed.
"No."
"Get off."
"You dropped me."
"You pulled too hard."
"You let go on purpose."
Harry looked up at him. Draco looked down at him. Their faces were six inches apart. Draco's hair had fallen forward and was brushing Harry's forehead and neither of them had registered this because they were four and registering it was nine years away.
Harry moved.
The move was fast and efficient and entirely unscripted. He rolled sideways, using Draco's weight against him in a way that Severus would later identify as instinctive and which bore a concerning resemblance to a wrestling technique Harry had no business knowing at four. Draco went over. Harry ended up on top. Draco went pink with outrage. Harry's knee was on Draco's chest, not hard, just present, the calm, definitive weight of someone who had won.
"I was on top," Draco protested.
"Now I'm on top."
"That's not fair."
"You tackled me first."
"Because you dropped me."
"Because you pulled too hard."
They had arrived at a logical loop and neither of them was going to exit it. Severus could see this. Narcissa could see this. Both of them stood at the edges of the rug looking down at two four-year-olds in a deadlock, and the moment held the specific quality of a scene that was simultaneously a discipline issue and the funniest thing that had happened in the quarters in months.
Severus picked Harry up. He lifted him off Draco with one arm, the practised efficiency of a man who had been extracting his son from situations for four years and who had the technique down to a single motion. Harry dangled. He did not resist. He was accustomed to being removed from situations by this method and accepted it with the passive compliance of someone who knew the removal was temporary and the situation would resume later.
Narcissa collected Draco. She did this with the composed grace of a woman who had been managing Draco's outbursts since birth and who could do it in formal robes without creasing them. Draco was upright, brushed off, and repositioned on the settee in under four seconds. His hair was fixed in five.
"We do not tackle," Narcissa informed him, with the level, precise tone that was her version of Severus's classroom voice.
"He started it."
"He did not start it. He released a broomstick. You started it. We will not be discussing this further."
Draco's mouth opened. It closed. He looked at Narcissa and recognized the expression and chose, with the specific tactical wisdom of a Malfoy, not to press the point.
Harry, still in Severus's arm, was looking at Draco across the room. His expression was not triumphant. His expression was the calm, settled expression of someone who had been in a fight and was now out of the fight and was already thinking about the next thing, which appeared to be the biscuits on the table.
"Down," Harry informed Severus.
"You are not in a position to make requests."
"Biscuit."
"Biscuits are for children who do not instigate wrestling matches."
"He tackled me."
"You engineered the conditions."
Harry looked at him. The look was steady. The look was four years old and was already doing the thing Harry's look would do for the rest of his life: the quiet, direct, unblinking look of a person who knew exactly what he had done and was waiting to see whether the person holding him was going to pretend otherwise.
Severus set him down. Harry went to the table. He took a biscuit. He took a second biscuit. He carried the second biscuit across the room to the settee where Draco was sitting with his arms crossed and his chin up and his dignity in visible disrepair.
Harry held out the biscuit.
He did not offer it. He held it out in the space between them and waited.
Draco looked at the biscuit. He looked at Harry. He looked at the biscuit again. His arms were still crossed. His chin was still up. His pride was still active and functioning and doing its best to maintain the position that he was wronged and had no intention of accepting concessions from the person who had wronged him.
He took the biscuit.
He took it without uncrossing his arms, which required him to uncross one arm and recross it, which he did with the flustered efficiency of a boy managing a capitulation he did not want to be seen performing.
They ate their biscuits. Side by side. On the settee. Not speaking. Not touching. The distance between them the width of a cushion and the length of a grudge that would last approximately eleven minutes before Draco suggested a different game and Harry agreed.
Narcissa looked at Severus.
"Saturdays," she confirmed.
"Your son tackled my son."
"Your son provoked my son."
"My son released a broomstick. The provocation is an interpretation."
"An accurate interpretation."
Severus looked at the settee. At two four-year-olds eating biscuits in silence. At the broomstick, abandoned on the rug, the cause forgotten before the crumbs were finished.
"Saturdays," he confirmed.