Letters To A Friend (Draco Malfoy Fanfiction)

XIV.

It's been two weeks since I last wrote to Cedric.

Two weeks since I let everything pour out, the kind of pain that seeps so deep into your bones you wonder if it'll ever leave. Since then, I haven't touched the notebook. What more could I say? What else was there to write when I'd already exposed every piece of my broken heart?

But tonight, everything feels heavy again. The weight of it presses down on me, suffocating, like a storm cloud hovering overhead that refuses to break. Barely anyone speaks to me in my own house since that day in the Great Hall with Zacharias. It's as if everyone has taken his side, and that makes it all the more difficult. Ginny and Hermione haven't a clue about what happened between me and Ron, and I doubt Harry would ever tell them either. He's Ron's best mate after all. But it still stings that my own brother wouldn't even apologise for what he said. Does he really think so little of me?

I sit on the edge of my bed, the faint glow of the setting sun casting long, eerie shadows through the window. Maybelle, Bethany, and Olivia are downstairs with the others, laughing about something I'm not a part of.

With a resigned sigh, I pick up the notebook from my bedside table, the inscription on the cover staring back at me as though mocking me: "Podemos estar separados, pero nunca distantes." (We may be separated, but never distant.) I flip it open, expecting the familiar blank pages, waiting to swallow more of my words. The same ritual, the same sadness. But tonight, something's different.

I freeze.

There, in the centre of the page, are words I didn't write.

"You're never alone, not while I'm here."

For a moment, I can't breathe. My fingers grip the edges of the notebook as if it might vanish into thin air. My eyes trace the letters again and again, trying to convince myself they're real. This... this is impossible. My letters have always disappeared—every single one, every outpouring of grief and despair. Yet here, in a neat, elegant hand, are words that do not belong to me.

Someone else has written in the notebook.

The weight in my chest shifts, changing from the familiar ache of loss to something entirely different—fear. And confusion. My mind races. Who could have possibly written this? How? The notebook was supposed to be my secret, my connection to Cedric, even if that connection felt one-sided and hollow. But now, someone has broken into it—into my thoughts, my grief, my most private moments.

I sit there, staring at the words, the ink still dark and fresh on the page. "You're never alone, not while I'm here." There's a strange comfort in the message, but also an unsettling feeling, like someone has been watching me all along, listening when I thought no one could hear.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel a cold dread settle over me. Whoever wrote this... they've been reading my letters. They've seen everything—the rawest, most vulnerable parts of me I thought I'd hidden from the world. I slam the notebook shut, pressing it against my chest as if that might somehow shield me from the truth.

I don't know how long I sit there, frozen in place. The room is silent, save for the distant crackle of the dormitory room fire and the occasional burst of laughter from downstairs. But inside, my thoughts are a whirlwind. Who could have written this? It wasn't Cedric's handwriting. That I would know anywhere. No, this was someone else. Someone who has been watching, reading.

The inscription on the cover swims back into my mind. We may be separated, but never distant. It feels different now, unsettling. I reopen the notebook, my pulse racing as I stare at the words again. They haven't disappeared. They're still there, taunting me.