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Motherhood and Pasta:
The graveyard was silent. Cold mist curled around broken stones as Voldemort raised his wand, snake like face twisted in triumph. The Dark Lord had returned.
Opposite him stood Harry Potter. Sixteen, curls a fiery mane, colander gleaming like a halo. Beside him, Draco Malfoy, somehow now legally married to Harry, despite their age; pale, handsome, devoted, colander angled just so.
In Harry’s arms was their son Rigatoni. A cherubic, wide-eyed baby swaddled in a blanket patterned with tiny fusilli noodles.
Harry cooed, pressing a kiss to his child’s forehead.
“Don’t worry, darling. Mama’s got this.”
Draco, his voice breaking, whispered: “Our little heir to the Sauce.”
Voldemort sneered. “You dare bring a child into my rebirth? Foolish, Potter. Love cannot save you this time.”
Harry’s emerald eyes flashed. “It’s not love, Tom.” He raised a wooden spoon like a wand. Sauce shimmered in the air, thick and red. The smell of garlic and basil filled the graveyard. “It’s MOTHERHOOD. And also…PASTA.”
He twirled the spoon, and noodles burst forth like divine whips, lashing at the ground.
Voldemort stumbled back. “What.... what is this sorcery?!”
Draco stepped forward, protective. “It’s the power you’ll never understand, Voldemort. Blood magic, marriage vows, and the colander upon my head bind me to Harry. His noodles are my noodles. His sauce is my sauce. We are unstoppable.”
Harry, rocking the baby, shouted: “AVOCA–PASTA!”
A stream of spaghetti erupted, glowing with golden light. It wrapped around Voldemort’s wand arm, hissing as though alive. He screamed, writhing as marinara sizzled against his skin.
The baby giggled. A single noodle floated down and gently booped his nose.
“See?” Harry whispered lovingly. “Mama’s doing this for you, sweetheart. Just like Grandma Lily once did for me.”
The graveyard glowed brighter. From the ether, a vision appeared: Lily Potter herself, holding a casserole dish, smiling through tears.
“My son,” her spirit intoned. “Use the Sauce. Be the Sauce.”
Harry wept. “Thanks, Mum.”
Voldemort shrieked as he sank to his knees, smothered by wave after wave of al dente glory. “NO! I cannot be undone by NOODLES!”
But Harry’s power only grew. The baby burbled happily, pasta swirling around him like a halo. Draco clutched Harry’s free hand, whispering: “For our family. For the Sauce.”
Together, they unleashed the ultimate spell:
“FETTUCCINI FINALE!”
A tidal wave of pasta, sauce, and parmesan thundered across the graveyard. Voldemort was swept away, shrieking as meatballs the size of Quaffles pummeled him into oblivion. His wand snapped. His form dissolved. His last words echoed into the night:
“…I should have ordered takeout…”
Silence fell.
Harry collapsed against Draco, still cradling their baby. “It’s over,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the child’s head.
“Mama’s here. Mama loves you.”
The baby gurgled, eyes shining the same emerald green as Harry’s. A lone noodle drifted through the night air, glowing like a star.
Draco kissed Harry’s temple. “We did it, love. You, me, and our precious little meatball.”
Harry sniffled, curls tangled with spaghetti sauce, and whispered to the heavens:
“RA’MEN.”
Breakfast at Malfoy Manor:
The long dining table of Malfoy Manor had seen its share of eccentric gatherings. Goblin ambassadors. Dark family councils. Even one memorable seance where Aunt Druella tried to hex the chandelier into revealing her future during a family dinner.
But never
Not once
Had Lucius Malfoy endured this….. Torture??
Across from him, Harry Potter-Malfoy (colander crown perched over fiery curls) was eight months pregnant. His robes strained over his massive belly, sauce stains decorating the silk like medals. He hummed as he rubbed his bump.
Beside him, Draco glowed with smug marital bliss, feeding grapes to Harry between kisses on his temple.
At the foot of the table toddled their firstborn son: Rigatoni Severus Potter-Malfoy.
Yes. Rigatoni.
Lucius had tried, Merlin knew he had tried, to veto it, but Harry had simply giggled, declaring, “It’s the name He whispered to me in a dream! Rigatoni will carry on the noodly legacy!”
Now Rigatoni ran in circles, shouting “RA’MEN!” as bits of spaghetti trailed from his sticky little fists.
Narcissa was radiant, practically glowing herself as she hovered at Harry’s side.
“Oh, darling, look at you,” she crooned, patting Harry’s bump. “You’re blooming. Positively divine. Draco, fetch more pillows, he needs lumbar support!”
“Yes, Mother,” Draco said smoothly, already sliding a cushion behind Harry’s back. He looked down at his husband with stars in his eyes. “Is that better, my little Meatball Mama?”
Harry giggled, kissing Draco’s jaw. “Mmmm, my Saucy Tomato Dragon.”
Lucius gagged audibly into his wineglass.
As if that weren’t enough, the breakfast table was overrun with Harry’s followers.
Everywhere Lucius looked, there were colanders. Piled high with eggs, sausages, croissants… being worn on heads. Young witches and wizards chanted softly between bites of bacon, waving forks in reverence.
Across from them sat Lucius’ oldest and most dignified friends: robed patriarchs of pureblood society, their monocles fogging as they were forced to share a table with self-proclaimed “Pasta Apostles.”
One elderly Parkinson cousin whispered in horror, “That boy just baptised his toast in marinara.”
Nott leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I heard they pray to a floating noodle spirit. Imagine, a noodle!”
Avery sniffed, dabbing at his monocle. “It’s called the Great Spaghetti, apparently. My niece joined last month. Says it brings ‘saucy enlightenment.’”
Parkinson’s cousin gave a scandalised hiss. “Saucy enlightenment? At breakfast?”
Rosier smirked behind his teacup. “They’re harmless enough. But last week, they tried to canonize a breadstick in Flourish and Blotts. Caused quite the scene.”
“I heard,” murmured Nott, “that they make new members swear over a pot of boiling water. Salted, of course.”
Lucius glanced at the chanting youth, grimacing as one solemnly twirled a forkful of spaghetti like a rosary. “If this is what wizarding society has come to, we are all doomed.”
“Shhh,” Avery warned. “Careful. They say speaking ill of the Noodle invites… indigestion.”
Parkinson’s cousin paled as a colandered boy glanced their way and solemnly sprinkled parmesan over his croissant.
Then came the final insult.
Harry leaned forward, eyes sparkling, and announced in his sing-song voice:
“Baby Rigatoni is going to be a big brother soon! I think…our next son’s name shall be… Linguini Albus Potter-Malfoy!”
The cult erupted into applause.
Draco clasped Harry’s hand over his belly, kissing his knuckles. “You are truly the Noodly Chosen One.”
Narcissa dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “Two grandchildren! My heart is so full!”
Lucius choked on his tea. “ALBUS?!”
“Yes,” Harry said serenely. “After the great prophet Al Dente.”
And then, because fate was cruel, Rigatoni chose that exact moment to climb onto the table, smack a breadstick into his father’s gravy boat, and shriek:
“MAMA’S NOODLES MAKE BABY STRONG!”
The cult cheered. Narcissa applauded. Draco looked like he might faint from joy.
Lucius buried his face in his hands. His manor, his legacy, his sanity…..
All drowned in sauce.
Across the table, one of his peers whispered, horrified: “Lucius…your family is running a theocratic pasta orgy right under your roof.”
Lucius just groaned in despair.
Saucy Shenanigans:
Lucius had endured many humiliations in his life. Azkaban. House-elves singing bawdy limericks about his hair. Losing duels to Arthur Weasley.
But this?
This was worse.
Because his beloved son and Harry “the Colander Messiah” Potter-Malfoy had disappeared halfway through breakfast. The entire cult had whispered knowingly, waggling their eyebrows. Narcissa had sighed dreamily, declaring, “Ah, young love!”
And Lucius, against his better judgment, had stormed down the hall to drag them back to the table.
What he found nearly killed him.
The master bedroom door was wide open. Inside, Harry (third trimester belly gloriously bare) was sprawled across silken sheets, giggling breathlessly. Draco was bent over him, trailing sauce down his throat with a spoon, licking it away with theatrical devotion.
“My darling Raviolo,” Draco purred, “you taste divine.”
“Mmmm,” Harry moaned, wriggling happily, “extra cheesy, just for you, my Saucy Prince.”
Lucius clutched the doorframe, face turning puce.
“MERLIN’S—BY SALAZAR—STOP—”
But worse, far worse, was the chorus of chuckles behind him.
His old Slytherin comrades had followed. Augustus Greengrass. Cassius Nott. Even grumpy old Abraxas Parkinson, leaning on his cane.
And instead of recoiling in horror, they leaned in.
“Well,” Augustus drawled, “didn’t think Draco had it in him.”
“Potter certainly does,” Cassius smirked. “Flexible little thing, even with the…ah…sacred bump.”
“Good hips for heirs,” Abraxas croaked approvingly. “Strong bloodline. Excellent pasta names.”
“SHUT UP!” Lucius howled, trembling with shame.
Harry squealed suddenly as Draco kissed lower, the spoon clattering to the floor.
“Oh! Draco, don’t spill the marinara, the baby’s kicking!”
“Then he approves!” Draco crowed, caressing Harry’s belly with reverence. “Even in the womb, Linguini understands passion!”
The onlookers applauded.
Lucius screamed internally.
He staggered back, half-fainting, as Narcissa swept past him serenely with Rigatoni on her hip.
“Children,” she called into the room sweetly. “Do finish up quickly, breakfast is getting cold. And Harry darling—do try not to strain yourself, you’re eating for two.”
“Thanks, Mum!” Harry chirped from the sheets, voice muffled by Draco’s kisses.
Rigatoni clapped his tiny hands and shouted: “PAPA’S SAUCY!” Not having a clue what was going on.
The old Slytherins roared with laughter.
Lucius Malfoy collapsed against the wall, whispering in broken tones:
“My house is cursed. My bloodline is cursed. I am cursed.”
And still, from the bedroom, came the unmistakable sounds of sauce, giggles, and absolute marital shamelessness.
The Pasta Sugar Daddies:
Lucius thought, naively, that the horror was over. That perhaps the memory of Draco feeding Harry marinara by the spoonful in front of his ancestral friends would fade with time.
He was wrong.
Because two weeks later, Harry Potter-Malfoy (eight months pregnant, glowing like a saint of carbs) had acquired… an entourage.
It began innocently enough. Augustus Greengrass stopped by to “check on the heir.” He left having written Rigatoni a trust fund, an account so lavish that even the goblins at Gringotts raised their eyebrows. Word of his generosity seemed to spread like wildfire through the old wizarding families.
Then Cassius Nott sent over a set of enchanted silver rattles “in honour of the Sauce.” The rattles jingled with perfect harmony, producing lullabies in Italian whenever Rigatoni yawned. They even floated above his crib like tiny musical sentinels, much to Harry’s amazement.
Abraxas Parkinson, who hadn’t smiled in thirty years, was suddenly bouncing Rigatoni on his knee and teaching him the family motto: “In pasta veritas.” The old man’s laughter echoed off the walls, startling the portraits, who peered curiously at the uncharacteristic display of joy. He soon began arriving daily, declaring himself the baby’s “official tutor in noble behaviour and refined taste in sauces.”
It didn’t take long for the trickle of attention to grow into a flood. Harry found himself surrounded at breakfast by these venerable men, their flowing robes brushing against the kitchen counters, all vying for Rigatoni’s attention. They cooed and coddled, argued over who would spoon-feed him mashed pumpkin, and treated each burp as an omen of great fortune.
The gifts escalated in both extravagance and absurdity: diamond-studded colanders polished to mirror brightness; imported Parmesan delivered by owl post, each wheel wrapped in velvet; enchanted bibs that cleaned themselves, embroidered with gold-threaded crests of the ancient houses. Someone even presented a miniature cauldron that brewed broth whenever Rigatoni so much as whimpered.
By the end of the week, the once-quiet home had transformed into a salon of wizarding aristocracy, with Harry caught somewhere between awe and exhaustion, his son reigning like a tiny, spaghetti-themed monarch over the assembled lords of old magic.
Draco was utterly delighted. “Harry, love, our followers are so generous.”
Harry beamed, cheeks pink. “They just…really like me!”
Lucius slammed his teacup down so hard the saucer cracked.
It got worse.
One crisp morning, sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the manor, illuminating the ornate drawing room in a warm golden glow. Harry waddled in, cradling a drowsy Rigatoni against his chest like the most precious treasure in the world. With a dramatic sigh, he flopped right into Abraxas’ lap, making the old man grunt in surprise before instinctively wrapping his arms around both Harry and the chubby little toddler.
“Grandpapa Abra,” Harry whined, drawing out the words as if each syllable weighed a ton. “I’m soooo tired of being pregnant.”
Abraxas, who had a legendary reputation for cruelty and a duelling record that terrified half the Wizengamot, melted into a puddle of adoration.
MELTED.
This was the same man who had once hexed his own nephew for sneezing during dinner, and now he was crooning like a cooing dove. “Oh, my precious tortellini, anything for you. Shall I fetch you candied figs? A foot massage? A pony? Say the word, and it’s yours.”
Before Harry could respond, Cassius swept into the conversation with a grandiose gesture, his voice dripping with determination. “Don’t listen to him, Harry. I’ll buy you a vineyard. An entire vineyard. You can stroll through the grapes, and after the baby comes, there will be wine—only the finest vintages for you.”
Augustus, seated in a high-backed chair like a king on his throne, gave a scandalised snort. “Please. You’re both thinking far too small. I’ll fund the child’s entire Hogwarts education. Rigatoni AND the new one… what was it, Linguini?” He leaned forward, face alight with pride. “Consider me his god-grandfather already.”
A crackling tension filled the room as the three Malfoy elders locked eyes, their silent duel waged with wallets instead of wands. Centuries of aristocratic pride were now devoted to out-grandparenting one another.
Harry, blissfully oblivious, giggled and buried his face in Rigatoni’s soft curls. “You’re all so sweet! Draco, isn’t it wonderful? Rigatoni has so many new grandpas!”
Draco entered then, the picture of joy, his eyes shining as he crossed the room to press a tender kiss to Harry’s temple. “The more, the merrier,” he murmured. “He deserves the whole world.”
From the corner, Lucius, ever the epitome of rigid dignity, silently sobbed into his monogrammed handkerchief, the sound muffled but heartfelt nonetheless.
Outside, the peacocks scattered across the perfectly manicured lawn, as if even they could feel the storm of love and absurdity swirling inside the manor.
At dinner that night, Narcissa was radiant.
“Harry has brought such joy into this house,” she announced. “Augustus, Cassius, and Abraxas are practically family now. Isn’t it wonderful, Lucius?”
“WONDERFUL?” Lucius thundered, face red. “They are corrupting my household! They are spoiling Potter like some…some concubine of carbs!”
Augustus smirked. “Jealous, old friend?”
“Jealous?” Lucius sputtered, trembling. “Of what? My son’s noodle-worshipping, perpetually pregnant husband surrounded by doting geriatrics?!”
“Yes,” Harry chirped, twirling spaghetti with innocent cheer. “They’re like sugar daddies! But more like…sugar grandpas.”
The table roared with laughter.
Lucius Malfoy’s soul left his body.