Soft, Decadent Brownies
Draco went to bed only a few hours after Potter and Weasley left his flat, feeling torn apart and raw, as though he’d been left to bleed out. He wondered if that was Potter and Weasley’s goal, just to make him utterly miserable. Then he thought of what the church would think if they heard his hateful thoughts. Draco tried to block them out, the voices. They told him that he was meant to suffer, that Potter and Weasley were complete and utter pricks for what they’d done, that God was a prick, for even letting something so terrible happen.
Draco felt the boulder push down on his chest as he worked to avoid crying again. He felt the air vanish from his dark, drabby room, felt the night get darker and colder. He felt time pass and felt the pressure grow along with sudden and complete exhaustion. He didn’t feel it when the first bits of sorrow dripped down his cheeks, nor did he hear the sounds of agony that escaped him. All he could feel was that pressure, stifling, suffocating. Pressure, trying to wring him out, trying to crush him under its weight.
Draco didn’t leave his room at all for the next few weeks.
At least, not for any reason other than eating, which he was doing less and less of nowadays, and using the loo.
Draco felt lost. He wondered if, perhaps, this was all a mistake. Maybe she wasn’t really gone, just missing- or perhaps they identified the wrong body. Maybe whoever was out there doing all of this would stop killing people upon realizing what an awful mistake he made, to have killed somebody innocent. Astoria was innocent. Innocent. She did nothing wrong. It was me, not her. It was me, all me.
A few days into his self-constructed cycle of misery, Draco got the news that Theodore Nott was found dead in the basement of a Muggleborn family. This shattered Draco’s little bubble. He canceled his subscription to the Daily Prophet. What use was the News, anyway? Draco had only been keeping his subscription active so he could stay up to date, but there was really no point if there was nothing he deemed worth knowing about anymore.
It was also around that time Draco became convinced he was hearing things. It was as though somebody was knocking on his door. It happened at least a few times a week. Other times, Draco swore he could feel a twinge of magic in the air. Though he knew it wasn’t him. What was the point in practicing his magic right now, anyway? Life was cold, meaningless, and cruel. He had no reason to do anything and nothing to do anyway. So, he kept on with his dragging, ignoring the occasional knocks, and the shimmers of magic that kept falling around the stupid flat. His flat was so stupid, anyway.
Sometimes his mind liked to be particularly cruel by letting him forget what had happened, causing him to think about sending her an Owl, or perhaps calling her via the floo network that he doesn’t even have in his stupid Muggle flat.
Draco wondered if Daphne knew yet, wondered how she’d reacted. Was she as devastated as Draco was?
Oh, Draco missed her terribly. He missed her smile, her laugh, how strongly she felt about the monopoly goblins had over the Wizarding banking system, how her arms felt around him…
He simply missed her. Everything about her.
Draco didn’t know what day it was when he received an Owl from Daphne inviting him to the funeral. However, it kicked a certain part of him. As he looked around his flat, he spotted blankets and cushions thrown, shorts, briefs, trousers… In the kitchen laid dishes uncleaned from days, almost a week ago, maybe more, Draco didn’t quite know. Particles of dust caught through cracks of sunlight beaming through the window shades.
Astoria would never accept this.
That day, Draco began to clean.
The Muggle way, of course, he reasoned. How else could he ensure that it took up as much time and mental space as possible? It began with the laundry. He picked up all of the clothes that had been strewn about and put that as well as all of the clothes from his laundry basket into the washer. Then, he began the dishes, which took him a lot longer than he expected. Old bits of sauce and residue dried and stuck firmly to his plates, bowls, and cups. It all took an obscene amount of scrubbing to remove. Then, came the floor. It needed a severe sweeping. And a vacuuming, and a mopping.
After folding the laundry, Draco went ahead and put his carpets to wash. Then, he continued to give the floor its third mop-over. He put his clothes to dry, drained the dirty mop water, folded his clothes, dried the carpets and rugs, did his bed, put away the now-dry plates…
By the end of the day, Draco collapsed onto his bed with a sigh. His hands were dry and chalky from all of the cleaning products, and he couldn’t smell anything properly, but, he had managed to not think about anything the entire day.
Draco liked that. He found he liked it a lot.
So, the next day, he did some more. He put the curtains to wash, and he swept the floor again. He also went through his icebox and cupboards, throwing away anything that might be expired and rearranging their contents.
The day after that, his flat still smelled strongly of cleaning products, and he only had four dirty articles of clothing. His floor was clean, and there were no dishes to do- Draco had now decided that if he truly lacked the appetite for food, he could at least serve plates and re-place the food in its original container if only to be able to wash dishes. Draco decided that perhaps, today could be his day to rest. He sat down on the couch, proud of how much more homely a simple cleaning made this flat. Astoria would be proud.
Astoria…
It began with a simple squeeze of his heart, then, his stomach dropped rather unpleasantly. When he attempted to take a breath, it felt as though the air had vanished from his little old flat. Astoria should be here. She should get to see how clean the flat was now. She should- she…
She should get to smile one last time, to take one last breath.
Draco should get to see her again.
He had had just about enough of it when an overwhelming surge of emotions threatened to bring tears to his eyes. He stood abruptly, His breath coming in small pants, and turned around, removing the wrinkles from the couch cushion where he’d just sat, with every wrinkle that smoothed itself out, with every pass of his fingers across the soft, smooth surface, Draco found he was able to breathe just a little bit easier. The couch would look prettier if there weren’t any wrinkles on it.
Draco decided to wash his bedsheets and put new ones on his bed. It took him an hour and a half to ensure that his bed looked like it was from a page ripped straight out of a magazine. Then, he deep-cleaned the bathroom, which took him the rest of the day.
The next day, Draco was finding it rather difficult to come up with new things that needed tidying. It was twenty minutes after he’d rearranged his extensive collection of books from genre order to alphabetical order that he’d become restless and fidgety, searching through his apartment frantically for something to occupy his mind, to stave away those thoughts that invaded him like a poison, sour and nearly unstoppable. When looking through his cupboard, he’d found a box of brownie mix. Perfect.
He worked hard at the brownies. They took him about an hour to make, and they had come out delicious (Draco had to try them. After all, they were something new and of his own creation). But, he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps making them from scratch would take more time, effort, and space in his brain.
The space in his brain part was what he was aiming for the most, really. And what was perfect was that thanks to having reorganized all of his books, he had found one filled with over 100 pastry and dessert recipes. He found a page with directions for “Soft, Decadent Brownies” and made a note of the required ingredients. Draco found himself smiling widely, anticipation giving him a surge of energy he hadn’t felt in a long time, and went to find the ingredients in his cupboard.
Draco frowned. He had almost none of what was required of him. He could sense the threat of those awful thoughts lingering, waiting for even a second of weakness to invade.
He figured he must find other ways to clean, then. He could start with the bowl, utensils, and pan used for the brownies. Then, from there, he could perhaps rearrange his wardrobe.
The night before Astoria’s funeral, Draco was tossing and turning in bed, as had become his usual, by now. Because the awful thing was that despite Draco’s best and most successful efforts to stay busy during the day, he had yet to come up with what to do in the late hours of the night, when everything he’d worked so hard to keep away during the day had come crashing back, and relentlessly.
He dreamt that Astoria was never dead, that she came to him, surrounded by the ethereal glow of a God, and told him she loved him.
Draco only got three hours of sleep, that night. Maybe he could take up cleaning at night, as well. Only sometimes. Just when he couldn’t particularly take it, maybe.
Draco spent the rest of the night considering it.