Chapter 9
Draco
"Blushing, Prewett?"
The way her cheeks flushed confirmed it, though she scowled at him almost immediately, yanking her hand back as if burned. “Shut up.”
Draco let out a quiet chuckle, but his amusement wasn’t just from flustering her—it was from the knowledge that he had gotten under her skin. That no matter how hard she tried to keep her walls up, to play the part she thought she needed to, there was something between them that neither of them could ignore. He felt his mother’s gaze flick toward him, sharp and knowing, but he didn’t look.
The Malfoy tent was grand, far more extravagant than the mismatched, haphazard Weasley setup Draco knew Lydia was returning to. The space was elegant, richly furnished with fine velvet chairs, enchanted lanterns casting a soft golden glow, and a fully stocked bar tucked neatly in the corner. It was the kind of luxury Draco had grown up with, the kind he barely noticed anymore.
He could still feel the ghost of her skin against his lips, the way she had tensed, the way her cheeks had turned pink despite her best efforts to hide it. ‘Blushing, Prewett.’ He smirked at the memory.
His father’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "So."
Draco turned his head just slightly, keeping his expression neutral. Lucius sat across from him, lounging in his chair, his cane resting lightly against his leg. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was sharp. He twirled his drink between his fingers in slow, calculated movements.
"I assume there’s something you’d like to tell us," Lucius continued, his tone light but carrying an unmistakable edge.
Draco leaned back in his chair, feigning indifference. "Not particularly."
Lucius exhaled through his nose, swirling the liquid in his glass. "A Prewett." His gaze flickered toward his wife. "Interesting choice, wouldn't you say, Narcissa?"
Narcissa took a slow sip of her wine, her expression giving away little. "She carried herself well," she admitted.
Draco smirked slightly. "She does that."
Lucius wasn’t amused. "Draco."
Draco met his father’s gaze evenly, unfazed. "What would you like me to say?" he asked coolly. "That she’s important to me?" He shrugged. "Fine. She is."
Lucius studied him for a long moment, his fingers tapping absently against the armrest of his chair.
"She’s clever," Narcissa murmured, breaking the silence. Her voice was thoughtful, considering. "She knew how to speak to us. Knew what to say. What not to say."
Draco resisted the urge to smirk. Of course she did. She was perfect.
—
Lucius stood from his chair with quiet precision, smoothing down the front of his robes. He didn’t say a word at first, simply adjusting his cuffs, reaching for his cane, and checking the time in a way that seemed deliberate. Draco straightened slightly, watching him.
Narcissa, who had been reclining gracefully on the velvet sofa, exhaled softly. "Lucius."
Lucius didn’t look at her, didn’t pause. He merely placed his pocket watch back inside his robes and turned for the exit.
Draco narrowed his eyes. "Where are you going?"
Lucius barely spared him a glance. "For a walk."
That was a lie. Draco knew it, Narcissa knew it, they all knew it—but none of them said it outright.
Narcissa took a slow sip of her wine before placing it down with careful elegance. "Be discreet."
The moment he was gone, Draco turned to his mother. "What’s going on?"
Narcissa’s gaze flicked to him, unreadable. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with."
"Right," Draco scoffed. "Because Father always leaves in the middle of the night for something unimportant."
Narcissa exhaled softly, as if already weary of the conversation. "Draco—"
"Is it about the Ministry?" he pressed, though he already knew the answer was no.
Narcissa’s lips curved faintly—not amusement. Resignation. "No," she said simply.
Draco clenched his jaw, his fingers digging into the armrest of his chair. "Then what?"
Narcissa studied him for a long moment, as if deciding how much to say. Then, in a quiet, careful voice, she murmured, "Your father is reminding people who they should be afraid of."
Draco’s stomach twisted. He didn’t like the way that sounded. He didn’t like the way she sounded—detached, but not unconcerned. And most of all, he didn’t like the thought that clawed into his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Lydia is still out there.
He pushed off his chair and strode toward the exit.
"Draco." His mother’s voice was firm but not loud. Not a plea, not a command—just a warning.
He hesitated only for a moment, glancing back at her. Narcissa had barely shifted in her seat, but the sharpness in her eyes told him she knew. Knew exactly why he was leaving, where he was going, and most importantly—who he was going to find. She didn’t try to stop him. Draco turned and stepped out into the night.
Draco spotted her easily. Lydia was walking between Fred and George Weasley, their red hair unmistakable even in the crowded, bustling campsite. He couldn't go to her now, not with them watching. Fred and George weren’t idiots. They might joke and mess around, but when it came to people they cared about, they were protective. And right now, Draco knew exactly where he stood with them—nowhere good. Draco watched as George nudged Lydia’s arm, laughing about something. Fred grinned at whatever remark his brother had made, adding his own comment that made Lydia scoff. Draco clenched his jaw. He should have walked away. Should have left her to them, should have let this moment pass. But he didn’t. Instead, he stepped forward, moving into her path just as she looked up. She froze, barely stopping herself from colliding into him.
"Malfoy," Fred said flatly, his good mood vanishing in an instant.
"What do you want?" George added, his tone just as unimpressed.
Draco ignored them, his attention locked on Lydia.
"Can I talk to you?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.
Lydia hesitated. “Yes,” she said, looking at Fred and George.
He pulled her out of earshot, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Listen to me. You need to get back to the tent. Now."
Her brows furrowed. "Draco, what—"
"My father is planning something." His grip tightened slightly, urgency pressing into every word. "I don’t know everything, but he left the tent to meet with his…associates. He’s about to make a statement, and you don’t want to be out here when it happens."
Lydia’s eyes widened, her breath hitching. Draco never warned people about his father. He never questioned what he did, never worried about what his family’s name meant.
"You’re sure?" she whispered.
Draco nodded once, his jaw tight. "I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t."
Fred and George were still standing a few feet away, watching them closely. He had to make this quick.
"Go back with them," Draco muttered. "Stick close to your family. If anyone asks, you didn’t see me tonight."
Lydia swallowed hard, hesitation flickering across her face.
"Lydia," he whispered sharply. "Go."
She nodded, barely. "Alright," she murmured. "I’ll go."
Draco exhaled, stepping back just as Fred and George started toward them.
"Everything alright?" Fred asked, his tone light but edged with suspicion.
Lydia turned to them, her expression carefully neutral. "Yeah. Let’s go."
—
His father stood near the fireplace in the drawing room, pouring himself a glass of elf-made wine, his movements as elegant and unbothered as ever. His mother sat nearby, her expression carefully composed, watching him the moment he entered.
Lucius finally turned, swirling the wine in his glass before looking at his son. “You saw it, then?”
Draco hesitated for only a second, keeping his face neutral. “Yes.”
"There will be more," Lucius continued, swirling the dark liquid in his glass. "The Dark Lord’s return is inevitable. And those who forget their place must be reminded of it."
The Dark Lord is coming back? When?
Draco went to bed that night, his thoughts churning. His subconscious melted from peaceful darkness into the drawing room of the chamber, they’re usual meeting spot. As soon as he saw her he relaxed for the first time since earlier that day. He pulled her into a tight hug. “Thank Salazar you’re alright.”
“Of course I am,” she muttered into his ear. “Thank you for warning me.”
He cupped her face in his hands. “I’d do anything for you. Don’t ever question that.”
Her breath sped up. Her dark eyes stared so intently into his before she pulled his lips to hers.
The moment her lips met his, everything else fell away. Draco kissed her back with everything he had, pouring his frustration, his relief, his devotion into the way his lips moved against hers. His hands slid from her face to her waist, pulling her closer, needing to feel her against him, needing to know this was real. His heart raced as a thought hit him so suddenly, so violently, that it nearly stole his breath. I love her . The realization sent a shiver down his spine. He hadn’t said it. Hadn’t even let himself think it before now. But Merlin help him, it was true.
—
Draco had never wanted anything the way he wanted her. It was a dangerous kind of love—the kind that unraveled him, that made him reckless, that set fire to every carefully built wall he had spent his whole life fortifying. And he hated it as much as he needed it. He had tried to stop it. Merlin, had he tried. But it was like fighting gravity. Like trying to convince the ocean not to pull toward the shore. Impossible. Inevitably futile. Because Lydia Prewett wasn’t just a choice anymore. She was ingrained in him. In his bones. In his breath. In the space between his ribs that ached every time she was too far away. And Salazar help him, she didn’t even know what she was doing to him. She walked into a room, and the world tilted. She met his sharp words with sharper ones, his arrogance with defiance, his cold detachment with something that made him feel alive. And in those stolen moments—the ones where it was just them, where no one was watching, letting him have even a fraction of what he wanted—he was helpless. Completely, entirely helpless. Because when she kissed him, he forgot how to breathe. She was in his head. In his skin. There was no going back. No pretending he didn’t want everything with her. No lying to himself that this wasn’t the most real thing he had ever felt.