Badgered by Guilt
@dggrys
Draco Malfoy had been a free man for a year -- at least in the eyes of the law, his trial over and his wand returned to him. That didn’t mean the rest of the world saw him as someone who belonged outside of Azkaban; that didn’t mean that Draco saw himself any differently. But he was free, and life continued...which meant that unless he wanted to spend the rest of said life hiding in the relative safety of his family home, he needed to learn how to navigate the world outside the manor’s gates again.
Part of him -- a large part -- did want to leave those wrought-iron gates closed forever and let himself fade away like a bad dream...but even bad dreams get bored. And there were potions he needed, and that meant (because now that he was functional enough to go back into his laboratory and do more than stare blankly at the empty cauldrons, he wasn’t about to have someone else brew his draughts for him, not when they would surely be inferior to anything he could brew) he needed ingredients. He could have them delivered, of course -- had been taking deliveries from a shabby little shop on Spindrift Lane that was too poor to turn up its nose at Malfoy gold for almost a year now -- but Draco had always preferred to pick out his own ingredients; that way one knew one was getting the best.
Now, on the third day of trying, he’d finally managed to force himself through the floo to the Leaky Cauldron and all the way out to Diagon Alley (not Knockturn; he wasn’t sure he’d ever go to Knockturn again, no matter how interesting the shops; too many people there had family who were in Azkaban today because of testimony he’d given, he didn’t dare) but when he saw the sign for Ollivander’s wand shop his resolve had crumbled. Was the old man back at work, or had some relative taken over? It didn’t matter; the name was enough to conjure the memories, the horror, afresh. He couldn’t walk past that door, he couldn’t.
He stumbled backwards, retreating -- but found his path blocked by the solid form of the wizard behind him. Draco went to wrench away, lips curling back in preparation for an angry snarl -- but the words died, strangled and silent, when he saw the face of the man he’d bumped into: Cedric Diggory. The boy who’d almost died in the graveyard the night Draco’s father had been dragged back into war by his Dark Mark; the man who’d helped Harry Potter win the war while Draco had let the Dark Lord guide him around like a puppet. He hadn’t seen Cedric since the day the other wizard had testified at the Malfoys’ trials. Of all the people Draco could have nearly bowled-over in his panic to escape Diagon Alley, why had it had to be Diggory?
“You...Diggory, I...sorry for...” Sorry for what? For running into him? For helping a monster who’d almost murdered him? It had been two years, and Draco still had no idea how to apologize to any of them for that.
