Everyone knows that size of a man's hands and feet were indicators of the natural endowments below the belt. That the better hung a stallion, the better the bedding, and the sweeter the repeated rewards.

He'd heard that, or variations on the theme, for years. Unfortunately, he knew it was a lie perpetrated by others like him, and he had to live up to it or bring shame on his people and their glorious history...

Unless there was someone out there willing to make do with just what God gave him and natural intelligence had enhanced? He shook his head at the absurdity. No, no one wants a man with a small cock...

^V^V^

Severus Snape was snide, rude, a bit hirsute, and an all-around git. But, rumour had it that he was hung as well as any thoroughbred racing around England. The same—in varying degrees—could be said for Mad-eye Moody and Sirius Black. If asked, there were a few good witches and wizards that would corroborate the stories. If one was diligent, and had a limitless supply of Veritaserum, they could even find one or two leading lights to agree.

Now, after the all the fighting, and all the healing that had to come with it, Severus was laid up in a cottage tucked in hills cutting through a corner of the Forbidden Forest. He shared it with Mad-eye Moody, Sirius Black, and a sheepish, much put-upon Ron Weasley. Of them all, it was punishment for Weasley as Snape was being held in an enchanted healing sleep, Moody was busy regrowing his one human leg, and Black was working through being unexpectedly ejected out of the Veil and into the middle of a pitched battle between Professors McGonagall and Hooch over Oliver Wood's, ah, natural woody knob, which Ron had the poor taste to overhear graphically described in shudderingly fulsome detail by the elderly women, and being right there, he'd been elected Sirius-keeper for the duration.

Now, Ron was no mediwitch. It was just too bad that he was privy to all sorts of rumour-breaking information he couldn't share with anyone. He was a strategist, an Order of Merlin-First Class recipient, and Harry Potter's other best friend. He was not—as he told himself for the sixth time that day—cut out to be chief cock-and-ball washer extraordinaire for three over-the-top and unwilling heroes of the Light while Harry was out cutting a swath through the ladies and Hermione was reclaiming her parents. In fact, he was just a workhorse.