Drarry Oneshots 2

If At First You Don't Succeed

Top!Harry

Bottom!Draco

Summary: Hermione proves once again that there is no problem she cannot solve with enough research. Draco proves once again that there is no limit to his optimism, his stubbornness, and his determination to have a daughter. And Harry proves once again that there is no Magical name too ridiculous for his consideration (as if we needed any proof).

OR

You guessed it... Draco gets up the duff again, and this time he's absolutely positive it's a girl.

Author: CorvetteClaire (on ao3)

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"Dad-dyyyy!" two high-pitched voices called in perfect unison. "Auntie 'Mione wants you!"

Harry glanced up to see his five-year-old sons bounce into the room, identical down to the last hair in their silver-blond queues, radiating a level of self-satisfied smugness that would have made Draco proud. They obviously expected plaudits for bringing their father this momentous news, but Harry merely dropped his eyes to the pan on the flame in front of him and resumed stirring. His custard was at that crucial stage when a moment of inattention would result in overly-sweet scrambled eggs, rather than a lovely pudding, and he had no intention of spoiling all his work for anything less than a world-destroying crisis. Hermione at the floo did not qualify.

"Tell her to come through."

"She already did," the twins informed him, still in maddening unison.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," he sighed, finally turning exasperated eyes on his sons. "You sound like a Greek chorus."

The one on the left smirked, identifying it as Dragon (the twins had, eerily, picked up certain mannerisms from their namesakes—a smirk and lifted brow for Dragon, the habit of rubbing the back of his neck when uncertain for Hal—which was the only way anyone, even their parents, could tell them apart) and said, "You stole that from Papa."

"Yeah," Hal echoed, "from Papa."

"He says it all the time."

"An' he says you're an ig'rant Phil- phillis—"

"Okay," Harry said hastily, "you can go back to chanting, now." He turned his attention to his custard once more. "Where's your auntie?"

"Right here," the answer came, as Hermione bustled into the kitchen.

She was dressed in her Ministry robes and carried a sheaf of parchment under her arm that made Harry simultaneously curious and wary. It looked suspiciously like research, and research in the hands of Hermione Granger was almost always dangerous. She dropped her burden onto the table with a solid thwack and addressed the twins in a motherly way that never failed to bring out the worst in them (and why Hermione Granger, the smartest person he'd ever met, hadn't figured out that benign condescension didn't work with his Demon Spawn Harry would never understand).

"Run along now, boys. I need to talk to your father."

The twins, predictably, did not budge. Rather, they planted their feet, tilted their pointy chins, and chorussed, "We want tea."

"Later," Harry said firmly.

"We're hungry now."

Fixing a narrow glare on his recalcitrant sons and brandishing his spoon like a weapon, Harry declared, "You will have tea with your brothers, like you do every afternoon, and you will stay out of this kitchen until I call you. Now, go. After you apologize to your Auntie for being rude."