Chapter 8
Summer was dreadful. It had been the second night of summer when Ron finally snapped. They had barely spoken—she had barely spoken to anyone—but Ron had cornered her outside, arms crossed, scowling. "He doesn’t want to talk to you." Ron let out a sharp breath, shaking his head.
"Harry. He told me to tell you it’s over."
The words hit her harder than she expected.
"That’s it?" she asked, voice carefully controlled.
"Yeah." Ron’s expression darkened. "And I don’t blame him."
"Are you going to let me explain anything?"
Ron laughed bitterly. "Explain what, Lydia? That you lied to him? That you disappeared for months and acted like nothing was wrong? That you were with Malfoy the whole time? He has enough to deal with after the thing with the dementors and Sirius."
She swallowed, her throat burning.
"He trusted you," Ron snapped. "And you threw it in his face."
Lydia wanted to argue. Wanted to fight. Wanted to tell him that it wasn’t as simple as that. But she didn’t.
Ron had revealed the sordid details to the rest of the family. She couldn’t explain what had actually been going on all those months, so she let them assume she was in a romantic affair with Draco. It made her head hurt. True, her feelings for Draco were wrong, but nothing ever actually happened besides that night last summer when they were all wasted off firewhiskey. Seeing Molly and Arthur’s disappointed faces whenever they saw her made her stomach curl. Did they even love her anymore? Her only option was to occlude her thoughts, feelings, and emotions. It made her cold. The only time she let herself feel was at night. She would cry herself to sleep. Ginny wouldn’t speak to her. And Lydia hoped the girl wouldn’t wake up to her silent cries while she slept.
She had spent the last week of school hiding out in the chamber. It was the only place she could go where no one could bother her. Draco hadn’t even been allowed in. When he tried to talk to her she would tell him she needed to be alone. She didn’t want to be alone, she wanted to be with him, but her guilt was eating her alive. It infuriated her. She wasn’t one to let her emotions cloud her behavior. Emotional regulation, that was what she prided herself on. Since she was a pariah to the Gryffindors, she sat with her fellow Slytherins on the train, even though she didn’t want to see Draco—well she did want to see him. It was complicated.
Draco had been writing to her constantly since the moment summer began. She ignored him the first two weeks. By that point the daily letters—sometimes multiple a day—were getting absurd. Hiding the letters was becoming difficult. Draco sent his owl to arrive at night, when the others were asleep. Ginny had almost caught his eagle hovering in the window of their bedroom. His letters were filled with complaints of his father, how much he missed her, and how he was about ready to come to the Burrow and kidnap her if she didn’t respond.
Although she was unsure on how to proceed with her conflicting feelings, she couldn’t stop the undeniable pull towards him. It would be best to forget, focus on her mending her relationships. But what was the point when they were all disappointed in her, or worse, downright ugly.
Once she decided she wanted—needed—to see him, she meditated constantly. Laying down in her bed for over an hour every single night. It wouldn't take. She finally wrote back to him.
Draco,
I have received your abundance of letters. Stop writing to me before they notice.
Maybe you’ll see me in your dreams.
Lydia
—
Lydia sat on the porch steps, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, watching the last streaks of sunset fade into the horizon.
A pop of Apparition broke the quiet.
"Lyds?"
Her head snapped up, her stomach flipping at the familiar voice.
"Bill."
He stepped toward her, his dragon-hide boots scuffing against the dirt path, hair loose around his shoulders, looking like he had just come from work. His blue eyes scanned her with that same sharp, knowing look he had always given her. She sighed, scooting over slightly. Bill sat down beside her, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
"You’re supposed to be in London," she muttered.
"Yeah, well," Bill shrugged, "Mum’s worried about you."
She huffed out a humorless laugh. "She’s disappointed in me."
Bill tilted his head. "That too."
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the distant chatter of gnomes in the garden. Finally, he spoke.
"Ron’s saying you were sneaking off with Malfoy." His voice was neutral, but there was an edge to it. A quiet warning.
"I was."
Bill inhaled sharply through his nose, like he was holding something back. "Right."
"But not the way Ron thinks."
Bill’s gaze flickered to hers. "Then what way ?"
Lydia looked down at the ground, tightening her grip around her knees. She was so tired of keeping everything locked inside. If there was anyone she could tell, it was Bill.
She exhaled slowly. "I showed him."
Bill’s brows furrowed. "Showed him what ?"
Her fingers dug into the fabric of her pajama pants. "The Chamber."
Silence. The weight of his stare was unbearable. She forced herself to look up.
"You what ?"
Lydia swallowed hard. "I had to tell someone," she admitted, voice quieter now.
Bill let out a slow breath, “Why Malfoy?”
“I trust him,” she said quietly.
He didn’t respond.
"I know he's a Malfoy. I know you think it was stupid. But he doesn’t judge me, even though he may be one of the most judgmental people I’ve met, but he never judges me. He doesn’t see me the way everyone else does.”
Bill’s frown deepened. "And how exactly does he see you?"
Lydia exhaled sharply. “Like I’m perfect exactly how I am. Like I’m not the messed up Gryffindor sorted into Slytherin. Or a Slytherin blood traitor. He doesn’t feel like he’s who he’s supposed to be either. To be the perfect pureblood son his parents want. I see the real him.”
Bill’s expression softened slightly, but he was still tense. "So that’s what you two have been doing? Hiding away in the Chamber, bonding over your shared identity crises?"
"Something like that." She huffed a laughed.
“It seems like he’s pretty important to you.”
“He is, and nothing ever happened between us.” It was a small lie. Nothing had happened outside of that dare, nothing during the times they snuck off together.
Bill looked at her knowingly and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’ll be okay kid.”
—
It worked. She was able to reach him from long distances. After a long month, the magic pulsed as she felt her mind leave her body. The chamber's library materialized before her. Every single detail in place. It felt real. She chose this location for their shared love of knowledge and secrets.
Then she saw him. His platinum hair was messy, he was looking around in confusion, trying to figure how he got there. The realization set in when he saw her. He gazed at her with his piercing grey eyes. Silk emerald pajamas hung on his body, the definition of elegance.
“You did it,” he murmured as he strode towards her.
“I did.”
He stepped close to her, only a few breaths away. She could see every detail—the curve of his jaw, the faint line of tension in his brow, the way his lips parted slightly as if he were about to say something. And Merlin, she felt it. The pull. The same pull that had been there for years. That thing between them that had always existed, waiting. Now that she’d finally accepted her feelings, there was no denying it—she wanted him. They stared at each other, feeling the connection between them, they didn’t have to say a word. They both knew.
He leaned into her ear, “say you’re mine.”
Her breath hitched.
“Say it,” he demanded.
“I’m yours.”
—
She awoke with a newfound energy. It worked. The burrow suddenly had a new light and warmth to it that had disappeared the past month. The people around her didn’t matter. She could ignore them as long as she saw him again. Ginny did a double take when she saw her that morning. Lydia grinned at her and Ginny scowled. She was still upset about Harry. Apparently her crush on him made her overly protective. It didn’t make sense to Lydia, wouldn’t she be happy Harry was single?
The smell of eggs and sausage floated through the house, guiding Lydia to the kitchen table. The sun shone through the window, creating a beautiful summer day, perfect for quidditch. She relaxed into her seat and dug in, ignoring the looks from the others. They were confused by her sudden flip in emotions.
“Lydia dear, you’re in a good mood today,” Molly said, looking at her kindly. Molly had chosen to forgive Lydia’s transgressions recently.
She looked around the table, finally resting on her aunt. “Oh I definitely am.”
Ron scoffed. “Have you decided to become completely devoid of guilt now?”
“Nope. I’ve realized life is much less complicated without the distraction of boys.” A lie. Kind of. Draco certainly made her life complicated, but her emotional turmoil was worse when he wasn’t in it.
“So you and the Malfoy boy?” Asked Arthur.
“There never was anything, and there never will be, he’s a dramatic prat.” Another lie. “Ron loves to run his mouth with his bullshit stories.”
“LANGUAGE,” Molly yelled.
Fred and George started cracking up at her slight at Ron.
Ron furiously said, “I do not make things up.”
“Sure.” She rolled her eyes at him.
Ron proceeded to rant about Lydia and Draco and how terrible she was to Harry. It was time to get even for everything he had done this summer. And her wandless magic had become quite admirable. Ron grabbed his scalding hot mug of tea and brought it to his lips, with only a thought of her mind, she caused it to miss his mouth and dumped its contents all over Ron’s lap.
“AHHHHH. BLOODY HELL.” He yelled, jumping up, trying to get the burning water off of himself.
“RONALD,” Molly yelled, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“He can’t even bring the cup to his mouth, mother,” George said while laughing.
Ron stormed out of the kitchen. Percy watched him leave, mumbling about decorum. Lydia stifled a giggle.
—
The Quidditch World Cup was in four days. Harry and Hermione had arrived at the burrow. They both ignored her. Whatever, she wouldn’t care, they could do what they pleased. She had been visiting Draco multiple nights a week and that kept her spirits high. Draco had a way of making her forget. Forget about Harry’s cold shoulder, about Hermione’s judgmental stares, about the suffocating tension in the Burrow. With him, there was no pretense, no expectations—just the electric charge between them, the pull that neither of them could resist. Tonight would be no different. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Lydia excused herself to her bedroom, feigning exhaustion. In reality, her heart pounded with anticipation. She knew exactly where she’d be in an hour—wrapped in Draco’s arms, lost in the one place that felt like home.
His scent washed over her, sandalwood mixed with his own distinguished musk, and the minty smell of his breath. His hands found her waist almost immediately, pulling her closer as if he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance between them. "Miss me?"
She scoffed, though her heart stuttered at the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing that mattered. "You saw me two nights ago, Malfoy."
His lips curled into a smirk. "And that’s two nights too long."
Lydia rolled her eyes, but any retort died on her lips when he tilted her chin up, his fingers brushing over her jawline with deliberate slowness. The tension between them was suffocating, intoxicating. It always had been.
"You’re quiet tonight," he observed, his voice softer now, his gaze searching hers.
She shrugged, but Draco knew her too well. Knew the way her shoulders tensed when she was holding something back. Knew how she used sarcasm as a shield, how she buried emotions beneath layers of defiance.
"It’s nothing," she said, though even she didn’t believe it.
Draco exhaled sharply, pulling her down onto the sofa beside him in the drawing room of the chamber. "Potter?" he guessed.
She stiffened. Of course he knew. Of course he could see right through her. Lydia hated that. She also loved it.
“Him and Hermione arrived at the Burrow today.”
Draco’s fingers traced patterns over her wrist, his touch lazy, possessive. “Ah.” He watched her, his expression unreadable, though his fingers never stopped their slow, steady movement along her wrist. It was infuriating how easily he unraveled her, how he could make her feel weightless one moment and completely exposed the next. Lydia had spent the last year convincing herself that their time in the chamber, their whispered conversations, had meant nothing.
"Be my girlfriend," he said suddenly. His voice was quieter than usual, but firm—so very Draco.
Lydia blinked, caught completely off guard. "What?" she asked, as if she hadn't heard him.
Draco exhaled through his nose, like he was annoyed but also amused by her reaction. "You heard me."
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a sharp contrast to the calm mask she tried to maintain. "Why?" she questioned, even though she already knew the answer.
Draco tilted his head slightly, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over the back of her hand. "Because I want you to be mine, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t."
Lydia’s breath hitched. "I—" She hesitated.
"Don't overthink it," he interrupted, leaning in slightly. "Just say yes."
Lydia could still remember the last time they kissed—an impulsive dare, a drunken game, a moment neither of them spoke about after. This was different. This was real. And maybe that should've scared her. Maybe it did. But as she searched his face, as she let herself feel the weight of what he was offering, she realized there was only one answer she wanted to give.
"Yes."
Draco didn’t hesitate. The moment the word left her lips, his hand was at the back of her neck, pulling her in. The kiss was nothing like the one from a year ago—nothing like a dare. This time, it was deliberate.
They both pulled away after a moment.
“We can’t tell anyone,” she said sheepishly.
He rolled his eyes at her, “why ever not?”
“Because. Not now. We have to wait.”
“Fine.” He wasn’t fine with it but he understood. “I’ll wait.”
Draco Malfoy was now her boyfriend.
—
Lydia,
By the time you read this, you’ll probably be drowning in Weasley chaos, pretending you don’t want to strangle at least half of them. Lucky for you, I’ve arranged an escape.
I got you a seat in the Top Box—next to me. You don’t get a choice in the matter. You’re mine, and I’m not about to sit through this match pretending otherwise.
Meet me an hour before it starts, near the stadium entrance. Try not to be late, and for Merlin’s sake, don’t let Potter or Weasley notice. I’d rather not deal with a full-blown crisis before the match even begins.
Draco
—
The campsite buzzed with excitement, tents stretching as far as the eye could see, their colorful fabric adorned with moving banners and enchanted decorations supporting the different teams. The scent of roasting food filled the air as witches and wizards from all over the world celebrated, exchanging stories and friendly rivalries. The energy was infectious, and Lydia found herself grinning as she walked alongside Fred and George, dodging a group of Irish supporters waving giant shamrocks.
"This is mental," she said, shaking her head. "I knew the World Cup would be big, but this..."
Fred grinned. "This, dear cousin, is the greatest sporting event in wizarding history."
George nodded. "And we plan to take full advantage of it."
Molly, overhearing them, gave the twins a warning glare. "You two will behave yourselves."
Fred put a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. "Of course, Mum."
Harry walked beside Ron and Hermione. "I've never seen anything like this."
Ron, his eyes darting between tents displaying Bulgarian and Irish colors, looked like he might explode from excitement. "Krum's going to wipe the floor with them. Just wait."
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. "You do realize it's a team sport, right?"
Before Ron could argue, Arthur Weasley turned back to the group. "Alright, let's get our tent set up. Everyone, lend a hand."
It took a bit of maneuvering, and several missteps (including an incident where George nearly collapsed an entire section of the tent), but soon, they had their home for the weekend set up. The inside was far bigger than it looked, complete with multiple rooms and comfortable furnishings.
"Brilliant," Lydia said as she stepped inside. "Almost makes camping seem appealing."
That evening, they wandered through the campsite, taking in the various magical displays and stopping at stands selling Quidditch merchandise. As the sky darkened and the torches around the campsite lit up, excitement built to a fever pitch. Tomorrow, the match would begin. Tomorrow, she would see Draco.
She had a plan. Since Arthur knew about her issues with Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, it wouldn’t be difficult convincing him to let her sit with Pansy.
At breakfast, she played her part well, pushing her food around her plate, frowning slightly, letting just enough of her irritation show.
Arthur Weasley noticed. "Everything alright, Lydia?" he asked kindly.
She sighed, glancing briefly at where Harry, Hermione, and Ron sat together, chatting animatedly. "Yeah, I just… I don’t know if I want to sit with them at the match," she admitted. "It’s awkward. And honestly, I’d rather not deal with it."
Arthur nodded, his expression understanding. "I see. Well, I suppose if you can find a friend to sit with, I don’t see why not."
"Pansy," Lydia said immediately, trying to keep her voice even, casual. “She owled me yesterday—said she had an extra seat.”
Arthur hesitated, but ultimately relented. “I suppose, if she has an extra seat.”
That was all she needed.
By the time the match drew closer, the entire group made their way through the sea of witches and wizards toward the massive stadium. Lydia lagged behind just enough to slip away unnoticed. She had only taken a few steps before she heard him.
"You’re late."
Lydia turned to find Draco leaning against one of the large stadium pillars, arms crossed, a smirk on his lips.
"I’m exactly on time," she countered.
Draco pushed off the pillar, closing the space between them in an instant. "You made me wait. That’s late."
She rolled her eyes and followed him through the sea of people.
"You’re tense," Draco murmured beside her, his hand brushing against hers in a way that felt deliberate.
"Maybe because I’m sneaking away on a secret date with a Malfoy," she muttered.
Draco chuckled. "Relax. My mother is the only one who knows. She won’t say anything."
Lydia shot him a look. "Why does she know?"
He shrugged. "Because she’s my mother, and she notices things. And because I may have mentioned that I had someone important sitting next to me."
"Important?"
"Don’t let it go to your head."
They approached a quieter section near the entrance to the Top Box, where a few Ministry officials were checking tickets. Draco produced his without hesitation, slipping an extra one into her hand. "Just walk in like you belong here," he murmured. "No one will question you."
Lydia swallowed hard, nodding as she followed his lead. The official barely glanced at her ticket before waving them both through.
Once inside, the view was breathtaking—high above the pitch, overlooking the massive stadium that stretched out like a sea of movement. Banners for Bulgaria and Ireland flickered like fire.
Lydia had been preparing herself for this moment. It wasn’t like she was intimidated—okay, maybe she was a little intimidated. This was Draco’s mother and father.
Narcissa Malfoy’s expression was unreadable, her icy blue eyes scanning Lydia with quiet curiosity. Beside her, Lucius Malfoy studied her more openly, his sharp gaze flickering over every detail. She had prepared for this. She had spent years in Slytherin learning how to play this game, perfecting the way to present herself as a proper pureblood, even if she had grown up in the disorderly warmth of the Burrow. This was different. They were different. And she was determined to leave the right impression.
She dipped her head in a respectful but poised greeting. "Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy. It’s a pleasure to meet you."
Lucius’ expression was unreadable. "Prewett, is it?
"Yes, sir," Lydia replied smoothly.
Narcissa’s lips twitched slightly, not quite a smile but not disapproving either.
Lucius made a quiet hum, his gaze still assessing. “You were sorted into…?”
"Slytherin," she said, as if there had never been any question. "I never belonged anywhere else." That, at least, was true.
Narcissa seemed pleased by the answer, but Lucius remained unreadable. He studied her as though searching for any cracks, any sign of pretense, any reason to dismiss her.
"And yet, I understand you were raised among the Weasleys?" he said in distaste.
Lydia’s stomach twisted, but she refused to show it. This was the real test.
“I was,” she admitted, meeting his gaze evenly. “But one’s upbringing does not dictate one’s ambition. Nor one’s values.” In all honesty, she didn’t care either way for differences in the Weasleys and Malfoys values.”
Lucius went silent for a long moment. Then, finally, he gave a small nod. "A fair answer."
Relief threatened to rush through Lydia, but she held it back.
"Come," Narcissa said lightly, gesturing toward their seats. "Let’s not stand here all evening."
Lydia took her place beside Draco, her back straight, her expression composed. As the match prepared to begin, she caught the way Narcissa gave her a long, thoughtful look before turning away.
As the match ended and the crowd erupted in cheers, Lydia stood, smoothing the front of her robes, preparing to slip away before anyone in the Weasley camp noticed she had been missing. Before she could move, however, Narcissa Malfoy turned to her with a polite, expectant expression.
“Leaving so soon?” she asked lightly, though Lydia detected the subtle curiosity beneath her words.
Lydia nodded, keeping her composure. “Yes, Mrs. Malfoy. I should return before I’m missed.”
Lucius, who had been adjusting his gloves with practiced elegance, finally acknowledged her again, his gaze sharp but unreadable. “An evening with the Weasleys does seem quite different from one spent here,” he remarked. There was no mistaking the meaning behind his words.
Lydia refused to falter. Instead, she met his gaze with a carefully measured smile. “Perhaps, but I find it valuable to understand different perspectives.”
Lucius raised a single brow at that, his expression as impassive as ever. Narcissa, however, seemed vaguely amused. “A thoughtful answer,” she murmured, giving Lydia a small nod. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
Lydia inclined her head respectfully. “The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for your hospitality.”
Lucius didn’t respond immediately. He simply studied her for a moment longer before giving her the slightest of nods. “Miss Prewett.”
Lydia exhaled quietly, knowing that was as close to approval as she would get. Just as she turned, Draco caught her hand, his grip firm yet gentle. Before she could react, he lifted it to his lips, pressing a brief but deliberate kiss to her knuckles. Lydia’s breath caught. Heat immediately rose to her cheeks.
Draco’s smirk was infuriatingly smug. “Blushing, Prewett?”
She scowled, yanking her hand back. “Shut up.”
Behind Draco, she swore she saw the faintest flicker of amusement cross Narcissa's face before she turned away gracefully. Her heart pounded all the way back to the Weasley tent.