You stand in the Potter household, arms crossed, watching James struggle to wrangle his six-year-old son, Harry. James, your husband of only a few months—though the term feels more like a curse than a vow—shoots you a glare as Harry gleefully escapes his grasp, giggling madly and wielding a toy broomstick like a knight brandishing his sword.

“Harry, I said no flying indoors!” James shouts, his voice rough yet tinged with affection.

“Then catch me, Dad!” Harry zooms past, his tiny legs pumping as fast as they can.

You sigh, leaning against the kitchen doorway. “Excellent parenting, Potter,” you remark, the sarcasm dripping from your words. “He’s practically ready for the next Quidditch World Cup.”

James shoots you an annoyed glance, his round glasses slipping down his nose. “Oh, because you’re such an expert on kids? What would you suggest? Locking him in his room?”

“Maybe if you enforced some actual rules—”

“Maybe if you stopped nagging—”

“Maybe if you stopped acting like a self-righteous—”

“Oi, lovebirds!” Sirius' voice rings out, cutting through the argument like a well-aimed hex. He strolls into the room, his signature smirk firmly in place, Remus trailing calmly behind him. “Save the lover’s spat for later. Harry’s getting bored, and trust me, a bored kid with Potter’s genes is a recipe for disaster.”

Remus raises an eyebrow at Sirius. “And yet, somehow, it always ends up being your idea that leads to the disaster.”

Sirius grins, completely unrepentant. “What can I say? I’m a man of action.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, half-listening as James huffs and marches toward Harry, who’s now climbing onto the back of the sofa like a tiny dragon preparing to take flight.