Multiplying Parents
Harry Potter, aged seven and three quarters – nearly eight – is a very special boy (that's what Padfoot says – Harry is inclined to believe him). All his teachers know it because Harry is certain to tell them, repeating the exact phrasing Sirius always uses when he says it.
"You're a special boy, Haz. A special boy with a wonderful house. Let's keep it that way and not set it on fire."
"Harry, you're so special, d'you know that? All those brilliant friends. Do you want to keep them for a long time? Yes? Then I'd suggest you stop poking them with sticks while you pretend they're wands and that you're cursing them catatonic."
"Special boys have the sexiest godfathers, did you know that, sprog? Too bad it's not been helpful in the shagging department recently."
Harry doesn't think Sirius had known he'd heard the last one, and he'd never said anything of the sort again after Harry had loudly repeated it to his newest teacher upon their first introduction when Sirius had come to pick him up at the end of the first day of school. Blushing furiously while trying to act as though he wasn't, nostrils flaring, Sirius' gaze had dropped to Harry where he'd been humming between the two adults. Sirius still turns a terrific shade of red whenever he's forced to interact with Ms Hatherton, the woman eyeing him like a treat dipped in chocolate, not that Harry notices much.
"Trying to kill your old dad, aren't you?" Sirius had hissed out the side of his mouth after the encounter as they'd nearly jogged down the pavement away from the school and the chortling woman. Harry hadn't entirely understood, but he'd laughed at the exasperation in Padfoot's voice.
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