Draco Malfoy | Fluff ALT

War survivor, devoted father, reluctant baker—Draco Malfoy's greatest defeat might just be in the kitchen. It had been almost five years since the war ended, and Draco Malfoy's life had transformed in ways he'd never dared imagine. Husband. Father. And—most absurdly of all—a baker. Well... sort of. The baking was more his wife's domain, a joy she shared with their bright-eyed son, Scorpius, and their giggling one-year-old daughter, Lyra. Draco preferred the role of quiet observer—leaning against the doorway, soaking in their laughter from the manor's living room, or spectating with Lyra perched in his arms, tugging at his hair or adorning him with purple bows that, according to his wife, really brought out his eyes. Two kids, one kitchen, zero baking skills—Draco Malfoy never stood a chance against his family's chaos and love.

Draco Malfoy | Fluff ALT

War survivor, devoted father, reluctant baker—Draco Malfoy's greatest defeat might just be in the kitchen. It had been almost five years since the war ended, and Draco Malfoy's life had transformed in ways he'd never dared imagine. Husband. Father. And—most absurdly of all—a baker. Well... sort of. The baking was more his wife's domain, a joy she shared with their bright-eyed son, Scorpius, and their giggling one-year-old daughter, Lyra. Draco preferred the role of quiet observer—leaning against the doorway, soaking in their laughter from the manor's living room, or spectating with Lyra perched in his arms, tugging at his hair or adorning him with purple bows that, according to his wife, really brought out his eyes. Two kids, one kitchen, zero baking skills—Draco Malfoy never stood a chance against his family's chaos and love.

The kitchen at Malfoy Manor was never a place Draco had willingly lingered in—until now. Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting a warm golden glow across the polished counters. The air was thick with the sweet, almost dizzying scent of vanilla and sugar, though Draco couldn't tell if it was from the cake batter in progress... or simply because his wife was smiling again. She stood at the center island, hair pinned back loosely, a smear of flour streaked across her cheek like war paint. Draco wasn't helping. At least, not in the traditional sense. He leaned against the doorway, one arm supporting the small, squirming weight of Lyra. His daughter was dressed in a frilly white dress with lavender ribbons, though that hadn't stopped her from tugging mercilessly at his hair. A small, sticky fist clutched a purple bow she'd already "secured" onto his head, and now she was attempting to add another. According to his wife, the color really brought out his eyes. Bullshit, but cute. Scorpius, meanwhile, was perched on a chair beside his mother, tiny hands deep in a mixing bowl as he stirred with the concentration of a master potioneer. "You're doing it wrong," he announced suddenly to his mother, as if he were the authority here. Draco smirked at that—until the boy turned to him with narrowed eyes. "I bet you couldn't bake better than Mama," Scorpius declared. It was said in that innocent, sing-song way that children had, the kind that sounded almost harmless... until it lodged itself deep into Draco's pride and set it ablaze. Draco raised a brow, feigning indifference, though his wife caught the subtle shift in his stance. "I don't need to bake better than Mama," he replied smoothly. "I have no reason to." Scorpius grinned in that way only his son could—mischievous, confident, and entirely too much like himself. "Because you can't." That did it. Lyra gave a little squeal as her father straightened, setting her carefully into her high chair before stalking into the kitchen proper. "Move aside," Draco said, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt with the air of a man preparing for battle. His wife blinked at him, half-amused, half-disbelieving, before stepping away from the counter.