Draco was sitting outside a cafe in Diagon Alley, soaking up the sun. He was alone, as always, reading a book he had once found in the Hogwarts library. He missed Hogwarts; he would never admit that to anyone though. Since the war, Draco hadn't made any effort to contact any of his old friends (if you could call them that). And no one had contacted him. It worked out really, he still hadn't entirely recovered from the war, and, honestly? He was a mess.
However, Draco had found a job in an old pub in Diagon Alley; he only worked a few days a week and earned a galleon an hour. But it kept him distracted. It kept him sane.
He was on a break right now, he had just been in an argument with an ungrateful customer who decided that their butterbeer was too cold and the way to resolve the situation was to hex Draco. The git was lucky that Draco didn't crucio him right there and then.
Reading had always calmed Draco down; therefore that's what he decided to do. He found an old book in his apartment and took it down to his favourite café. He ordered a bottle of fire whiskey (which came with a disapproving look from the waitress) and set down his book on the table in front of him. The cover of the book was rotting; it was probably nearly as old as Hogwarts. He could just about make out the faint outline of the word 'Quidditch'. Of course! This was the book that he had read over almost a thousand times when he was in his second year. He had examined this book front to back until he was sure he knew every Quidditch rule off by heart. He remembered how scared he was for his first match against Potter.
Potter.
Draco had been trying so hard to just forget.
Forget about his past. Forget about how much damage he had done. How many lives he had helped to destroy.
But it was quite hard to forget when that name, that bloody name, brought it all back.
All the memories came rushing back. Being moments away from ending the life of his headmaster. Working alongside the darkest, most powerful wizard of all time, whose plan was to kill, demolish and destroy.
And why did he do all this? Because of his name. He was a Malfoy, what did anyone expect?
He was either despised or pitied. No one ever wanted to be his friend, nobody really liked him. That was just a part of being a Malfoy.
You were alone.
Draco had to do something to keep his mind off the haunting thoughts, circling his head. He didn't bother trying to read, the print was fading, making the words almost impossible to distinguish.
He left the café, leaving his bottle of fire whisky, untouched. He headed down a cobbled lane, passing the derelict buildings. The street was oddly quiet; he had never seen Diagon Alley empty before. Something wasn't right. He made his way to the closest shop, planning to find out what had happened.
As he made his way down the street, he passed a few wizards, all wearing the same fearful expression.
Something definitely wasn't right. Draco grabbed his wand from his pocket. He hadn't used his wand for months. He preferred not to, it brought back too many unpleasant memories. It seemed that everything that surrounded Draco reminded him of the war. This time, it was his wand, which had been used to kill Voldemort. Not by him, necessarily, but by Potter.
Draco entered the nearest shop, it was full of Quidditch Supplies. Inside, there were tens of wizards, gathered around something at the back of the cramped room. Draco approached the crowd, his wand at the ready. It had been so long since he did any kind of magic, he was scared he had forgotten how to use his wand. He tested it, casting a simple Lumos. A group of wizards turned around, obviously wondering why Draco cast such a spell in the brightly lit room. The enchantment had worked. He needed to have more confidence in himself, the confidence he had once possessed.
Draco, with his head held high, pushed through the crowd, eager to get to the source of the commotion.