Disclaimer: Anything you recognise isn't mine.

A/N: This was written for a challenge at the DG Forum on FFnet.

Here are the guidelines:

Must be Draco/Ginny centred, but can have side pairings. Must contain the following line: "Splotched if you must, (Draco or Ginny), but not lumpy!" Must be humorous.

Length: 300-500 words

Domestics and Toys

There was an art to making playdough. Unfortunately, Draco had yet to discover that art.

"I don't think Orion would really care for pink playdough," said Ginny, shifting the bottle of pink food colouring away from her husband. "Why don't you use the blue?"

Draco made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a huff. Of course, Malfoys don't huff—or so Draco claimed—they only made cultivated sounds of exasperation. In any case, the decidedly irritated Malfoy picked up the blue food colouring and poured it into the mixture.

"What is the point of this?" demanded Draco sourly. "I could just buy Orion a toy broom. I'm sure he'd have more fun playing with that than this foul-smelling blob."

"I'll have you know that playdough is something that muggle children and wizards alike have been known to enjoy. Besides, I'd rather have my son putting his creativity to use by building things out of a 'foul-smelling blob' than becoming quidditch obsessed at four-years-old because he only has a broom to play with."

"You only say that because you never had a toy broom."

"And you only say that because you never had playdough."

Draco lifted his nose snootily. "Why would I want to play with something that resembles cat sick?"

Ginny scrunched up her face in distaste. "Do you have to put it like that?"

"You can't deny that is what it looks like."

His wife heaved a sigh. "Just keep stirring. It won't resemble cat sick when you're finished."

Draco scowled but complied.

*…Some time later…*

"Um, Ginny? I think you should look at this..."

Ginny walked over to the bench where Draco had placed the tray of finished playdough. One eyebrow rose. "Really, Draco, you can make the most intricate of potions, but you can't follow a simple recipe on how to make playdough?"

Draco did not have the grace to blush. Nor did he admit his mistake. He simply scowled and declared that the whole thing had been stupid anyway. They would have done better to get the toy broom.

"You just don't get it, do you?" exclaimed Ginny. "This isn't just about giving him a toy to play with; it's about giving him something that we've prepared with our own hands—our own hearts."

"You know, Ginny, it wasn't your overt displays of sentimentality that prompted me to marry you."

"Oh, shut up," retorted his wife, though a smile twitched at her lips.

Just then a small, blond boy came bounding into the room. "Is it ready? Is it? Is it?"

Ginny laughed. "Yes, it's ready. Your father made it himself."

Draco handed the playdough to his son. Orion took one look at the substance in his hand and then raised critical eyes to his father.

"What do you call this?"

"Playdough?" answered Draco, if a little tentatively.

Orion shook his head solemnly. "Splotchy if you must, Father, but not lumpy."

Ginny let out a snort of laughter. Draco, on the other hand, was left to piece together whatever dignity he had left after being shredded to pieces by his four-year-old son.

One thing was certain. He would never doubt the significance of playdough again.

A/N: So, I may have used 'father' instead of 'Ginny or Draco', and I may have gone twenty or so words over the limit, but I had fun writing it, and that's really what counts in my books.