Soul Mate - Chapter 21:
Harry had been confined to the old Black townhouse for nearly half a month,
recovering from his injuries, but today finally he was allowed to leave.
He had just woken up and was halfway through the breakfast Kreacher had
proudly prepared when a sleek, silver-feathered owl swooped through the window.
The bird looked so elegant and arrogant that Harry couldn’t help but be reminded of a certain
blond Slytherin. The owl dropped a letter with almost theatrical precision
before gliding back out into the morning air.
Harry sighed as he stared at the envelope ornate, embossed with filigree,
and so ostentatiously perfect it could probably be sold in the Muggle world as luxury stationery.
He didn’t even need to check the signature to guess who it was from,
but when he did, he muttered under his breath. Of course.
The Malfoy touch.
He carefully opened the letter, half-tempted to keep the envelope as a collectible
it seemed like a shame to even crease it.
Inside, the handwriting was immaculate, the cursive elegant and controlled.
The note itself was brief, likely penned by Draco himself: he would arrive at 9:15 that morning to
escort Harry to Malfoy Manor as an official guest.
A few weeks ago, Harry would have groaned and paced his room in dread at the thought.
But now?
He and Draco had made peace. And honestly, he liked Aunt Narcissa she had been gracious and
kind. As for Lucius… well, Harry decided to be optimistic.
Surely even he wouldn’t make things difficult after everything that had happened.
People had to move forward, didn’t they?
He folded the letter neatly, placed it back into its envelope,
and tucked it into the drawer of his desk before facing a
far more serious dilemma what to wear.
Visiting Malfoy Manor wasn’t just any casual outing.
It was the Malfoy Manor the epitome of wizarding nobility
and he wasn’t about to embarrass himself.
Unfortunately, his wardrobe didn’t exactly scream “refined elegance.”
He wanted to look proper, maybe even dignified, but his clothes were either too plain,
too old, or simply wrong. He wasn’t short on money anymore
he’d inherited both the Potter and Black estates, and together they could fund generations
but buying fancy clothes had just never been a habit.
Old habits died hard. Growing up with the Dursleys,
he’d been grateful just to have something that fit, never mind whether it was new or stylish.
That attitude had followed him to Hogwarts and beyond.
He sighed as he surveyed the mess of clothing spread across his bed robes,
shirts, jumpers all hopelessly unimpressive. In the end, he gave up and settled for something
simple and neat. Checking the clock, he realized it was almost time and
went to wait in the sitting room, fidgeting with nervous energy.
Moments later, the sound of carriage wheels echoed outside the door.
Already? He frowned. It wasn’t even nine yet Draco had written nine-fifteen. Instinctively,
Harry reached for his wand. Memories of that disastrous Paris trip still stung.
He held the wand ready as someone knocked.
When he opened the door, Draco Malfoy stood there, perfectly composed
and immediately rolled his eyes at the sight of Harry pointing a wand at him.
“Lower that ridiculous thing, you paranoid Gryffindor,” Draco snapped.
“Answer me first,” Harry said firmly. “On the double-decker bus in Paris,
what potion did you give me?”
Draco glared at him, flicked the wand aside with a disdainful swipe,
and shoved a package into his arms. “A stimulant potion, obviously.
Honestly, this is how the great Savior greets someone who shows up early with a wand in his face?
I came to bring you clothes, Potter. Clothes. Merlin help me.”
Harry blinked at the package. “These are for me?”
“Yes,” Draco said with exaggerated patience. “
And if you don’t want my father to lecture you on proper attire every five minutes,
you’d better go upstairs and change now. Those Muggle clothes are a tragedy.
No taste. No coordination. No hope.”
Harry had long since learned to tune out Draco’s insults. Grinning,
he took the package and hurried upstairs. Inside was a set of fine wizard robes in deep,
forest green elegant, perfectly tailored, unmistakably expensive.
It was thoughtful, really. Maybe Draco just didn’t want him to look like an embarrassment
at the Manor but still, it was… considerate.
He couldn’t help thinking that Draco must have been secretly
judging his fashion sense for years.
When he changed and looked in the mirror, Harry had to admit
Draco’s taste was impeccable. The dark green fabric brought out his eyes,
and the cut made him look taller, sharper, more put-together than he ever had before.
He came downstairs feeling oddly proud. Draco was waiting, arms crossed,
and gave him a once-over. Then, without a word, he drew his wand and cast
a rapid string of hair-taming charms until Harry’s usually messy hair finally obeyed gravity.
“Good,” Draco said, smoothing Harry’s collar.
“Now you’re at least presentable.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Gee, thanks. I’m honored.”
Draco ignored the sarcasm and gestured toward the door.
“Come on. My parents are waiting.”
Harry followed him to the elegant carriage parked outside.
As they rode, the countryside rolling by, curiosity got the better of him.
“Draco, can I ask something? I mean your father’s never exactly liked me.
Why does he even want me at the Manor?”
“Because of etiquette,” Draco replied dryly. You saved my family, whether you meant to or not.
Without your testimony, my parents would be in Azkaban.
You’re a war hero, I’m a war hero there’s no conflict of interest.
Inviting you over is a matter of honor, not emotion.”
Harry grimaced. “Nobility sounds exhausting. Wouldn’t it be easier to just
say ‘thanks’ and be done with it?”
Draco gave a small, amused smile. “It’s not about ease. It’s about tradition.
Noble families exist to preserve and pass down those traditions.”
Harry tilted his head. “And after preserving and passing them down?”
Draco’s expression softened. “Then we refine them. Every tradition is just a rule
that’s survived the test of time and every generation adds something new.
That’s how legacies evolve, Harry.”
Harry looked at him thoughtfully, seeing for perhaps the first time the real Draco Malfoy.
Not the sneering school rival, but someone shaped by heritage, duty,
and the quiet desire to be better than what came before.
For the first time, he thought he might actually understand what it meant to be a Malfoy.