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She crashed hard during the final match of the season.
One moment soaring—then nothing but darkness and pain.
The Healers were kind. The prognosis was not.
Ginny didn’t cry.
Not when they said she’d never fly professionally again.
Not when the visitors and letters stopped coming.
But she did cry when Draco Malfoy showed up at her door one day—holding a key.
“A bakery?” she asked, blinking.
He didn’t smirk—just shrugged.
“I remember from our eighth year that you were insufferably good at baking, Weasley. Might as well monetise it.”
She stared.
“I don’t need pity.”
“I’m not offering any,” he said, pausing. “I’m offering floor space. And... a new start, maybe?”
Three years later
The bell above the door chimed softly.
Draco stepped inside, their orange-blond toddler balanced on one hip, the scent of cocoa and chaos hitting him all at once.
There she was—behind the counter, glowing and flushed, a messy bun perched on top of her head, elbow-deep in chocolate batter. The flower-patterned apron stretched gently over her bump.
“You’re still on your feet?” he sighed, crossing the room like a storm cloud. “You’re supposed to be resting, Red. We talked about this.”
She looked up, cheeks pink from effort—and something else.
“Good evening to you too, birthday boy. And hello, darling,” she added, kissing their son on the forehead.
“What? You’re baking? For me? While pregnant? That’s absolute madness.”
She arched an eyebrow. “So you’d rather have no cake, then?”
“I’d rather have a functioning wife,” he muttered.
“Draco—”
“No, don’t ‘Draco’ me,” he said, setting the child down—who immediately bolted off to raid his secret muffin stash.
“You’re seven months along. Seven. That’s a lot of baby to be hauling around while wrestling with pastry.”
She folded her arms, which only made her bump more prominent.
With a long-suffering sigh and the grace of a man clearly out of his depth, he rolled up his sleeves.
“Fine. Where do I start?”
Ginny blinked. “You’re offering to help me… bake? Your own birthday cake?”
“It’s either that or tie you to the bed,” he muttered, already squinting at the measuring spoons.
She bit back a laugh. “Flour’s in the left cupboard.”
Ten minutes later, the kitchen looked like it had been hit by a vengeful werewolf.
Draco had managed to coat himself in a fine, even layer of flour. Their toddler was sitting in a mixing bowl. Ginny had tears in her eyes—mostly from trying not to laugh.
“You’re doing great. Without magic, too,” she said with mock-seriousness, licking chocolate off her finger. “Truly. I’ve never seen anyone whisk with such… conviction.”
“I hate you,” he mumbled, though he blushed anyway.
“No, you don’t. You love me enough to ruin your dignity for a birthday cake.”
“That’s debatable.”
She laughed then—bright and unguarded—and it hit him like it always did: how she felt like home, even when she drove him mad.
They had saved and healed each other after the war, and what began as something strange and tentative had grown—inevitably—into love.
He glanced at her belly, at her flushed cheeks, at the tiny smile she was trying to hide—and yeah. Of course he did.
He loved her enough to ruin a hundred birthday cakes.
*
Later that night, at the bakery, with their toddler asleep on a bench and a slightly lopsided but surprisingly delicious cake between them, Ginny leaned against his shoulder.
“You know,” she murmured, “that was probably the worst sponge I’ve ever made.”
“I knew I put in too much sugar,” she added with a grimace. “And I forgot the strawberries. Pregnancy brain,” she said, tasting the cake.
“Still the best birthday cake I’ve ever had.”
He blew out the candle, made his wish, and took a big spoonful of sponge and chocolate cream.
“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, standing to close the curtains, then she pulled out her wand and levitated the leftover cake to the fridge.
Draco stood and crossed the room in two strides, wrapping an arm around her waist.
“I worry,” he said softly against her neck. “You overdo it, Gin.”
“I know.” Her voice was quiet now. “But this place—this life—we built it, Draco. I want to be in it.”
He kissed her temple, lingering.
“Please... just take better care of yourselves, yeah?” he murmured, stroking her baby bump lovingly.
“You’re right. From now on, I’ll slow down and actually rest—promise.”
She kissed him back, slow and familiar.
“Happy birthday, Draco!"
Outside, the world kept turning.
But in here, they had sugar, love, family—
and always something warm in the oven.
Literally. And metaphorically.