Letters To A Friend (Draco Malfoy Fanfiction)

III.

I haven't spoken to Harry since that night he brought Cedric's body back. Not a word, not even a glance, despite us sharing the same roof at the Order's headquarters for weeks. And it's entirely my fault. I've not had the courage to approach him, too weighed down by the shame of blaming him for Cedric's death. I know it's unfair—Harry's a victim too, just as Cedric was—but my grief is a tangled mess, one my heart can't seem to unravel, no matter how much my mind tells me otherwise.

So, every time I see him—usually in the company of Ron, who checks in on me from time to time—I turn away. I avoid his gaze, and I think he does the same. He probably senses the anger and sorrow I carry around, just as I feel his unspoken regret.

With the Daily Prophet mocking Harry every day, I sometimes feel a flicker of sympathy for him, though it doesn't push me to speak. I avert my eyes whenever Harry's gaze lingers near the Hufflepuff table, and the whispers about him buzz louder as students fill the gaps around us.

As I'm picking at my breakfast, I overhear Zacharias Smith, seated across from me, muttering in a voice thick with disdain. "After everything we've read in the Daily Prophet, he still has the nerve to show his face around here?" Smith's words come out like a sneer, his teeth clenched so tightly I can see the veins on his temple. I glance over to the Gryffindor table—Ron and Harry are sat side by side, Hermione and Ginny opposite. "What I think," Smith adds, "is that Potter let Cedric die on purpose."

I freeze. The fork in my hand halts mid-air, my stomach twisting into knots. His words hit me like a slap, leaving me rooted in place, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I glance around our table, looking for someone, anyone, to object. But all I get are uneasy glances and the usual clinking of cutlery.

"That's a pretty low accusation, Zach," says Ernie, voice tight beside him.

"What? Like you lot haven't read the Daily Prophet," Zach spits back. "He's always making himself out to be some bloody hero."

I try to shut out their useless chatter, but their voices are too loud, and it's harder to stay quiet. I know Zach. We're on the same Quidditch team, and I know how much he looked up to Cedric. He must be hurting as much as I am to say something so cruel, though it's unproven and deeply unjust.

Unproven and unjust? How hypocritical of me, when I've been blaming Harry for Cedric's death, too. The thought stings more than I care to admit. I've been sitting with the same grief and anger, but seeing it spill out of Smith's mouth makes me realise just how wrong I've been. It's one thing to feel it, to wrestle with it privately. It's another to throw it at someone else. I want to defend Harry, to shout that it's not his fault, but the words tangle in my throat, knotted with everything I've yet to untangle myself.

It's wrong, blaming someone who was just as much a victim as Cedric was. But here I am, wrestling with the same bitterness Smith's spewing out.

"Are you done now, Dolly?" Amanda's voice jolts me back. I look up, and they're all staring at me, waiting for my reaction.

"I forgot something in the common room," I say, the lie slipping out so easily it barely registers. Lately, I've gotten so used to lying that the guilt no longer follows. It's like I've built a barrier of small lies, keeping everyone's questions at bay. How I'm coping. How I'm feeling. As if grief—Cedric's absence—just fades away.

It's only been 89 days since Cedric died, and people expect me to be fine, just like that? All my life, Cedric was there—we talked, laughed, argued, and cried together. How can anyone think it's that simple? I know I'm probably making things harder for myself by refusing to move on, but honestly, sod that. I can't move on. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I don't even know where I'm going, I just know I need to get away from that table. If I stay, one of them will offer to come with me, and I'd rather serve detention with Snape than have that. So I let my feet take me somewhere, away from the Great Hall. When I finally feel the fresh air on my skin, I realise I've wandered to the courtyard.