Soul Mate - Chapter 2:

For an entire week, Draco stayed inside Malfoy Manor with his parents, the doors firmly shut to the outside world.

During that week, the wizarding world went through another storm—not of fear this time, but of worship. The Savior’s fever. The boy who had survived sixteen years ago had now truly become what everyone called him: the one who defeated the most powerful Dark Lord in history.

The Daily Prophet had practically forgotten that any other news existed. Every inch of print was devoted to the Final Battle. Of course, even the Prophet couldn’t fill seven days’ worth of pages writing about Harry Potter alone, no matter how much they adored him.

So, the spotlight shifted to others who had taken part in the war—especially the members of the D.A. Those students who once called themselves Dumbledore’s Army were now being referred to by another name, depending on who you asked: Hogwarts’ Army. Or perhaps, more accurately, Harry’s Army.

And among the many heroes who emerged, two spies stood out: Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy. The press went mad over them.

For Snape, the former Headmaster of Hogwarts, reporters practically dug up his entire ancestry. His unrequited love for Lily Potter, his student days, his every secret—they were all plastered across the front page by journalists who called their obsession “dedication.”

If it weren’t for Harry stepping in to stop them, Merlin knows what nonsense they would’ve written next. He sometimes joked that if those stories could make Snape crawl out of his grave just to scold them, he’d welcome the sight.

But when the late Headmaster’s story finally ran dry, the press turned their hungry eyes toward Draco Malfoy.

And Draco, to be fair, was quite the subject. The sole heir of the ancient and noble House of Malfoy, son of Lucius—once one of Voldemort’s most infamous Death Eaters—and Narcissa, the last living bl00d of the Black family. A perfect Slytherin aristocrat, raised on pureblood ideals… and yet, secretly, a spy for the Order of the Phoenix. For three years, he had passed them intelligence, brewed potions, and saved the lives of Aurors and Order members alike.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, now Minister for Magic, had confirmed this himself under Veritaserum, and even Dumbledore’s portrait vouched for it. Still, the public could hardly believe it. But disbelief never stopped reporters. If their stories stirred curiosity—even suspicion—they considered it a victory.

Unfortunately for them, Draco had no interest in entertaining fame. On the very day he returned home, he ordered the Malfoy family’s house-elf to politely refuse all interviews. Even the Daily Prophet couldn’t make it past the gates.

Of course, not everyone respected boundaries. Some tried to sneak in. But Malfoy Manor had stood for centuries, and its wards were not for show. Those who attempted to trespass were tossed miles away by the protective enchantments—mercifully, only that far. If not for their lack of real malice, they might’ve been flung straight into the Atlantic.

When it became clear that the Malfoys were unapproachable, the press redirected their efforts toward easier prey—the former D.A. members who had no ancient wards to protect them. Within days, the poor students of Hogwarts were being hounded left and right. Desperate, they turned to their Headmistress for help.

Professor McGonagall, ever the fierce protector of her cubs, had little patience for journalists. Without hesitation, she gave the castle’s house-elves a standing order: any reporter who set foot near the school was to be thrown out immediately.

And so, at last, the fever broke. The reporters, bruised and frustrated, went home to nurse their wounds. They had been tossed from the Malfoy estate and ejected from Hogwarts itself. Even a journalist had limits.

The heroes of the war, including the Savior himself, could finally breathe again.

Thank Merlin for that.

Two days ago, Harry had officially moved back into Hogwarts. Though half the seventh year was already gone, he had decided to return, along with Hermione, Ron, and Luna. It was late to prepare for the N.E.W.T.s, but Harry didn’t mind. If needed, he’d repeat the year. McGonagall wouldn’t object.

Now, he stood in the Headmistress’s office, here for a reason.

McGonagall, stern as ever but with a rare softness in her eyes, asked what he needed.

Harry nodded slightly. He explained that, thanks to the relentless reporters, he hadn’t ventured out much lately and wasn’t sure what was happening beyond Hogwarts’ walls. The Prophet cared only about gossip, not the real state of the world.

Voldemort was dead. The remaining Death Eaters were still being hunted. What mattered most to Harry now was their trial—justice, not celebration.

McGonagall seemed to understand. After a moment’s thought, she said she didn’t know much herself. The Ministry was in chaos. But Kingsley had told her that the trials would begin next Thursday.

Next Thursday? That was sooner than Harry expected. He’d assumed the trials would take at least a month to arrange. Only two weeks had passed since the war ended.

McGonagall sighed softly. The war had left the wizarding world in ruins. Rebuilding was far harder than anyone imagined. The Ministry was little more than an empty shell—short on structure, short on staff, and worst of all, short on gold.

Harry’s expression shifted as realization dawned.

McGonagall nodded faintly. Most Death Eaters were from wealthy pureblood families. Even if Gringotts’ laws protected their heirs from losing everything, each family still faced enormous fines—tens of thousands of Galleons per house. Enough to fund the Ministry for years to come.

Harry gave a dry laugh. He hadn’t expected the rush for justice to be driven by finances.

McGonagall looked weary. As a school headmistress, she hated to discuss politics, but Harry needed to understand. He was the Savior, the war hero, the symbol of their victory—but in peacetime, fame was a fragile thing.

Harry raised a hand gently, signaling that she didn’t need to say more. He understood. He wasn’t naïve. The war was over. His title no longer carried weight, and there was no Dark Lord left to fight.

Still, he had allies—his friends, his D.A. They were Hogwarts’ finest, the next generation of wizards and witches. They had sworn loyalty not to a cause, but to him, and Harry knew that if he ever needed them, they would stand behind him once more.

The Order of the Phoenix had long outshined the Auror Office in both power and purpose. Since Dumbledore’s death, Harry had quietly taken his place as its leader. No one said it aloud, but every member followed his word as if it were Dumbledore’s own.

He was now the sole heir of the Potter and Black families. Technically, he was half-bl00d—but the Potters were one of the old pureblood lines, and combined with the Blacks’ legacy, his influence was formidable.

Young, powerful, respected, wealthy, and adored—Harry Potter had everything. Perhaps too much.

It wouldn’t be long, he realized, before certain people began to see him as a threat. To prevent another Dark Lord from rising, the Wizengamot might one day turn their suspicion toward him.

The thought made him smile bitterly.

It was entirely possible.