Ravenclaw, Themed, Baking, WC: 528
AN: This is AU, Muggledom. Non-canon compliant. All that jazz.
Fred and Hermione.
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Mum is watching The Bake-Off with me on a quiet Tuesday evening. Dad's upstairs, watching the football on the TV in the spare bedroom. I'm casually reminded that I love baking, but now I can hardly think of it without feeling that harsh tug in my chest where Fred is supposed to be.
There was this beautiful little moment last year, in mid July. The sun was setting into the sky, bathing the kitchen in this glorious golden light. He kissed me lightly and dusted flour into my bushy hair, laughing riotously. I spooned out cookie dough for the both of us, placing the rest of the baked goods onto trays in the oven. We were both coated in the white powder, hands sticky from vanilla essence, and unable to keep too many feet between each other. I was drawn to him, like the opposite end of a magnet, wanting to be near him. The memory is still like a fairy-tale, but charred with a little bit of miserable context.
The first time he came over, I made him pancakes. As usual, the first one went terribly wrong but he ate it anyway, red hair seeming to fly in surprise at the burned and crisp edges of what should have been a pancake. The second one was almost as bad, as I had felt under pressure. I had that one. However, the third, and the fourth, and the fifth - they were the ones we made together - were pretty good. We decorated them with sugar and lemon, Nutella and raspberries, and authentic maple syrup.
Pancake day became my favourite holiday very quickly.
His favourite dessert to bake was the cupcake. It had never been a firm favourite of mine, but the joy that lit up his freckled face had been enough to last me forever. Hundreds and thousands thrown haphazardly over perfect piping, drawing on words and images in tiny, thin writing.
I'm not a masochist. I don't watch The Bake-Off because it hurts; I watch it because I love baking. It's something I loved before I loved him. It's something I loved before I lost him.
Fred died. I don't like talking about it.
My mum didn't pour us wine because the alcohol makes me too emotional. My dad is upstairs because he can't handle the way I'm feeling - instead, he's focusing on his own masculinity and hiding behind football rather than admitting to any feelings. Then there's me, having lost the great and wonderful love of my life. Back in my parents house, watching The Bake-Off, and eating comfort food of chicken nuggets. I'm a little bit lost too.
It's odd. I want to bake my problems away, and just make cake, after cake, after cake. But every time I open the cookbook, or set out the ingredients, it's like my capabilities are gone. I can't focus on the baking. I can barely even focus on what's in front of me.
There's a hole in my chest, and it isn't going anywhere anytime soon.
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Ta.
