Soul Mate - Chapter 4:

Being dragged by Hermione into her whirlwind of intense review sessions left Harry’s brain completely crammed. There was no room for anything else—only Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions revision filled his head. When he finally crawled out of bed that morning, he honestly felt like his brain had been overused. How ironic, he thought. He had barely escaped Voldemort’s torment, only to end up with a pounding headache courtesy of Hermione Granger.

Mumbling under his breath, he got dressed and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His messy black hair was, as always, beyond help, and that lightning-shaped scar still stood out sharply against his skin. It hadn’t faded one bit after Voldemort’s death. That mark would follow him for life—his eternal reminder.

The mirror, ever unhelpful, began another lecture about tidiness and appearance. Harry ignored it, having no desire to waste an hour fussing over how he looked first thing in the morning.

Morning, Ron. Harry greeted his friend as Ron emerged from the prefects’ dormitory. He could already guess Hermione had been up for hours—no one could rival her enthusiasm for study.

Ron looked even more exhausted than Harry. He managed a weak nod, clearly wishing the day would end before it began. The mere thought of another round of Hermione’s “study plan” made him want to drop dead on the spot. His girlfriend was wonderful in every other way, but her obsession with rigorous study could drive anyone mad.

Harry patted him on the shoulder in quiet sympathy. Truth be told, he wasn’t any more excited about today’s mountain of material than Ron was.

The two trudged together to the Great Hall. As expected, Hermione was already there, waving them over. She’d even saved them seats and set aside breakfast. Ron attacked his food as if it had personally offended him, while Harry’s attention drifted toward the *Daily Prophet* in Hermione’s hands.

What’s in the paper today? He asked between sips of pumpkin juice.

Nothing too important, Hermione said. At least they’ve finally lost interest in digging up every detail of the war heroes’ private lives—thank Merlin for that. Even she had grown tired of reporters constantly chasing them. But Harry, she added, the Ministry’s official trial for the Death Eaters is the day after tomorrow.

Harry choked slightly on his bread, coughing as he reached for his juice. That soon? He gasped, barely catching his breath. He realized he’d lost track of time entirely thanks to the endless review sessions.

You really have no sense of time, Harry.

He didn’t bother telling her that her own study schedule was to blame for that.

Speaking of which— Hermione’s voice trailed off abruptly. Her gaze shifted toward the doors of the hall, surprise flickering in her eyes.

The room fell silent. Following her line of sight, Harry turned—and froze.

It was Draco Malfoy.

He still wore the Slytherin robes, his platinum hair smooth and precise, his gray-blue eyes calm and unreadable. That familiar air of aristocratic poise and pride hadn’t faded one bit. Ignoring the sudden hush, he walked with quiet confidence to the Slytherin table and sat exactly where he always had.

The Slytherins exchanged uncertain glances. No one said a word, but all eyes turned toward their so-called prince.

Ron swallowed a mouthful of pudding with an audible gulp. What’s that ferret doing back here? His parents’ trial’s in two days!

Hermione smacked him with the rolled-up *Daily Prophet*. Ron Weasley, how many times do I have to tell you? Malfoy isn’t our enemy anymore. He fought on our side. Drop the childish grudge.

Ron, well-trained by experience, knew better than to argue. He muttered something and focused on his food instead.

Shaking her head, Hermione turned to Harry. What do you think he’s doing back here?

Harry shrugged. He had no idea. At a time like this, Malfoy should’ve been doing everything possible to help his parents before the trial. Coming back to school seemed… strange.

Harry, she said quietly, I think he might be here for you.

For me? Harry blinked. What could I possibly do for him?

Hermione lowered her voice. His father’s one of the most infamous Death Eaters—Voldemort’s right-hand man. No matter how much Draco did during the war, nothing can clear Lucius’s name. Azkaban’s unavoidable. His mother, though—her crimes are lighter. She might escape prison entirely.

Harry nodded slightly. He’d already given testimony about Narcissa saving his life. That statement hadn’t been made public yet, but it was enough to guarantee her freedom. I know all that, Hermione. But what’s it got to do with me?

Think carefully, Harry. If Draco wants to save his father, whose voice carries the most weight now? Whose words would people actually believe? Harry—it’s you. The Savior of the Wizarding World.

Ron groaned. Knew it. That ferret never does anything without a reason.

Hermione shot him a glare so sharp he shut up instantly.

Harry frowned, uncertainty clouding his thoughts. Would Malfoy really swallow his pride and ask for help? He’d long stopped hating Lucius Malfoy, but Sirius’s death… that wound could never heal.

If Draco really came to ask, would he say yes—or turn him away?

Before he could untangle his thoughts, chaos broke out at the Slytherin table.

After sitting in silence for so long, Pansy Parkinson’s furious voice suddenly rang through the hall—*Draco Malfoy!* The outburst shattered the quiet. Students turned, whispers rippled across the room. At the end of the table, Pansy had risen to her feet, shaking with emotion.

Calm down, Pansy, Draco said evenly, utterly unshaken.

How am I supposed to calm down? She shouted, voice breaking. I— She stopped abruptly, eyes brimming with frustration, then spun on her heel and ran out of the hall.

Blaise Zabini watched her go, then turned to Draco. Don’t mind her. She’s been under a lot of pressure lately.

Draco gave a faint, elegant shake of his head. He didn’t take it personally. He understood better than anyone what Pansy was going through. She’d never wanted to be a Death Eater. But her parents—devoted followers of Voldemort—had left her no choice. Disobedience meant punishment, maybe even death. There was no reasoning with people who had abandoned all sense of humanity.

Draco, Blaise said quietly, leaning closer, be honest. Coming back to school now—are you planning to ask the Savior to help your father?

Draco’s expression didn’t change. He simply shook his head. No. My father told me to return and prepare for my N.E.W.T.s. That’s all.

Ask Potter for help? Even if they weren’t mortal enemies, the Malfoys and Potters were anything but close. Besides, wasn’t Potter’s godfather killed because of his father?

Just that? Blaise asked, unconvinced.

Just that, Draco replied smoothly. He finished his breakfast, adjusted his robes, and left the hall with his usual composed grace—every eye in Slytherin following his back until he disappeared through the doors.