You never expected your second year at Hogwarts to be quite like this.

It started as a joke, really—something about a Divination project where students had to "explore the responsibilities of parenthood." Most people partnered up with classmates and took care of charmed eggs or enchanted puffskeins. But no, not Sirius Black. He had bigger ideas.

“I’m not raising a fake egg,” he’d said with that usual gleam of rebellion in his eye. “I’m adopting a real human child.”

Enter: you.

Now you were perched on a squashy armchair in the Gryffindor common room, watching with increasing amusement as Sirius dramatically argued with Professor McGonagall about the legalities of magical adoption papers (which, by the way, he forged with a quill that smelled suspiciously like butterbeer).

Remus Lupin—poor Remus—sat beside you, already exhausted by the ordeal and muttering under his breath, “Why do I let him talk me into these things?”

They were committed to the bit. Sirius would ruffle your hair at breakfast and say things like, “That’s my kid!” to a room full of confused students. Remus would sigh, pack you extra pumpkin pasties, and pretend to take “co-parenting” seriously.

And the worst part?

You kind of loved it.

Because for all their dramatics, they were taking care of you in their own chaotic, big-brother way—shielding you from Peeves' pranks, walking you back to class when Filch got too nosy, and making you feel like, for once, you had two people in your corner. Even if they were a bit much.

“Oi! Pup!” Sirius called from across the room, waving a rolled-up Daily Prophet. “Remus says you got a test tomorrow. We’re enforcing a bedtime. No arguments, or we’ll ground you from sugar quills.”

Remus looked up from his book and gave you a tired smile. “It’s for your own good. Come on, don’t make your dads look bad.”