Cicatrices- Marks That Remain

Desserts and Pastries

Draco rubbed his eyes, resisting the urge to yawn in public. He felt utterly drained and absolutely exhausted. His fingers were rough and dry, and there was a small bit of skin peeling at his fingertip, just below the nail. He'd woken up early the day of Astoria's funeral, unable to rest properly anyway, and gave his bathroom a thorough cleaning before taking a shower and putting on all-black formal dress robes.

Draco spent the entire service wishing he wasn't there. The memories and emotions that kept crashing like waves against ocean rocks had him irritable. He wanted to get up and do something- move. The entire ordeal had left him so twitchy and restless that he decided to apparate to the nearest market and stock up on as many baking materials as he could. He did everything in his power to breathe slowly, to stop the trembling and push everything from the earlier events of the funeral out of his mind. When he arrived back at his flat, he felt a small rush of exhilaration at the prospect that he would now get to organize everything he'd purchased. He spent the next two hours sitting at his kitchen cupboard and placing everything in meticulous order.

Then, he could finally clean less and bake more.

A lot more.

It started with those from-scratch Soft, Decadent Brownies that he'd wanted to make for at least a few days, now. The aroma that floated throughout his flat made it feel a little less sad, plain, and boring than it actually was. Draco had so many new utensils to clean, and so many more to remove price stickers from. He was getting a rush out of it, so much so that he moved on to a simple carrot cake, next. Easy and Moist Carrot Cake. Then Lemon Meringue Cupcakes.

Before Draco realized it, he had at least four desserts and pastries made fresh and sitting on his kitchen counter with a stasis charm. Draco had no room in his kitchen, and he surely could not eat all of the food he'd made himself.

Draco began going to church again. It was his Priest, Father Swain, who had convinced him. He spoke to Draco at the funeral, and as successful as he was in avoiding all such thoughts and memories of what happened during the day, he was still losing more and more sleep over everything throughout the long, mind-numbing nights. The only good thing he'd gotten out of it was deciding to go back to church.

And, he could bring his desserts, too.

The first Sunday Mass without Astoria threatened to weigh heavily on Draco. He had grown used to having her next to him while he held her hand, a fuzzy feeling overtaking him as he registered her warmth every time.

He sat alone, now, and it hurt to think of what he no longer had. Absently, he wondered if the ginger woman who always looked back at them was wondering where Astoria had gone. Draco vaguely recognized her and knew it was because of Hogwarts, but she didn't seem like the friendly type, anyway, so Draco and Astoria had never approached her. Draco turned his head 45 degrees to see her staring back. They both promptly looked away. Despite all of this, he kept his head held up high and thought of the tray of Traditional Bakewell Pudding that he'd brought, which was sitting on a table in a reception room to be eaten by his fellow church members after the Mass.

Draco felt like he'd been given a breath of fresh air, going back to church and having found a way to control the overflow of desserts that he continued to make. He continued this for four weeks. There was another funeral, and Draco refused to learn whose it was, he simply made more pastries. Then his pastry-making continued for at least 3 Sunday Masses after that. They were a massive hit each and every time. Draco had come to get to know several Muggles who swore that his pastries tasted "as though they were made with magic". He simply smiled and thanked them. Then, he offered them another. Take some home, he would offer, and when they asked about a recipe, he'd say they were a family secret. He knew this was a flat-out lie, and that they could probably find Draco's precise book at any store, but they were Muggles. They didn't need to know anything. He found that the lifted weight allowed him to ignore the knocking that still occurred on his door, even if it had grown from every few days to every day at 6:00 pm. Things were good. Everything felt okay, for a while.