"What do you want for your birthday, Prongslet?" Sirius asked, bouncing Harry on his knee. "A broom? A baby hippogriff? I know a guy. Don't tell your mum."
Harry looked thoughtful. He tapped his chin. "I want a wedding."
Sirius choked on air. "A... a wedding? You're five. You can't get married."
"Not me," Harry scoffed. He poked Sirius in the chest. "You."
"Me? Who am I marrying?"
Harry sighed, a long, suffering sound.
"You and Moony," Harry said like it was obvious. "Cake. Dancing. And you stop sleeping on the sofa."
"We're just friends, Harry," Sirius tried weakly.
Harry gave him a look of withering pity. "Uncle Padfoot. You eat off his fork. You pick the onions out of his soup. You steal his jumpers. You turn into a dog just so he’ll scratch your ears. You are not friends. You are... codependent."
Sirius’s jaw dropped. "Where did you learn that word?"
"Mummy calls you that," Harry shrugged. "Get married. I want cake."













