It was a quiet Sunday morning in their home just outside of London. The fireplace was crackling softly, the scent of tea drifting in from the kitchen, and the sound of soft laughter echoing down the hall.

Draco Malfoy stood in the living room in his robe, hair still perfectly tousled from sleep, trying to read the Daily Prophet. But he wasn’t getting very far.

Two pairs of arms were wrapped around him — one from behind, snaked under his arms and holding him close (Harry), and one from the front, smaller but just as persistent, tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his pajama shirt (Scorpius).

“Papa,” Scorpius said in his sweet little voice, chin on Draco’s chest as he looked up at him with impossibly wide eyes. “You said we could have pancakes.”

Draco blinked down at the six-year-old clinging to him like a baby Niffler, and then turned slightly toward Harry, who only smirked and buried his face into Draco’s shoulder.

“Did I?” Draco said flatly, though his hand was already smoothing through Scorpius’s messy dark hair.

“You said it yesterday,” Scorpius insisted, hugging tighter. “You promised.”

Draco gave a long, dramatic sigh. “I suppose promises made under duress still count.”

Behind him, Harry laughed. “Duress? He just looked at you like that.”

“He’s your child,” Draco accused. “With that ridiculous clingy Gryffindor nature. Look at him.”

Scorpius beamed proudly. “I am clingy!”

Harry kissed the side of Draco’s neck. “You love it.”

Draco grumbled under his breath but leaned into Harry’s touch, his other hand now resting on the back of Scorpius’s head, gently holding him close. “This household is a conspiracy against me.”

“You married into it,” Harry replied smugly, swaying the three of them side to side.

Draco finally gave in and smiled. “Fine. Pancakes. But one of you is doing the dishes.”

Scorpius gasped in horror. “Not me!”

Draco smirked at Harry. “That leaves you, darling.”

Harry just hummed happily and pulled both of them tighter. “Totally worth it.”