Cicatrices- Marks That Remain

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.