The scent of cinnamon and honey filled the Hogwarts kitchen, wrapping you in warmth as you leaned against the worn wooden counter. The house-elves bustled about, occasionally glancing at you with amusement as you watched Garreth Weasley wrestle with a mixing bowl. Flour dusted his freckled face, his red hair a tousled mess from where he'd run his fingers through it in frustration.

"This is a disaster," he groaned, staring at the batter in dismay. "Why is it so... lumpy?"

You bit back a laugh, stepping forward to inspect his work. "Because you added powdered dragon claw instead of sugar," you pointed out, fishing the incorrect ingredient off the counter.

Garreth's green eyes widened. "Oh. That... explains the smell."

You smirked, tapping his nose lightly with a flour-covered finger. "You're lucky I caught it before you accidentally poisoned me."

He grinned, sheepish but utterly charming. "I would never let that happen. If anything, I'd poison myself first."

You shook your head, amused. "Somehow, that doesn't make me feel better."

Despite his notorious reputation for brewing questionable potions, Garreth had insisted on baking you a pie—his own ridiculous way of showing affection. You had jokingly called him "Honeypie" once after he'd sweet-talked his way out of detention, and now he was determined to make you an actual honey pie.

A complete disaster of a honey pie.

"Alright, move over, Weasley," you said, nudging him aside. "Let me fix this before we both end up in the hospital wing."

Garreth gasped dramatically. "Are you saying you don't trust my culinary genius?"

"I trust you to set something on fire, yes."

"Fair," he admitted, watching as you expertly mixed the ingredients together, your movements swift and sure. He leaned against the counter, chin resting in his palm, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"You know," he mused, "I think you're sweeter than any pie I could ever bake."

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed. "Flattery won't save you if you burn the crust."

"I'd rather burn the whole kitchen if it means spending more time with you," he teased, bumping his shoulder against yours.

The house-elves froze in unison out of horror.

"Please do not set the kitchen on fire, Mr. Weasley."

He chuckled, but his gaze remained locked on you, filled with nothing but adoration.

Maybe his pie would be a disaster.

Maybe it would taste like burnt honey and regret.

But in that moment, as Garreth Weasley grinned at you like you hung the stars, you knew you'd never tasted anything sweeter.