Chapter 12
Lydia’s heart thudded in her chest as she stepped through the Floo at Malfoy Manor, Draco’s hand steady against her back. Part of her still couldn’t believe she’d pulled this off—convincing her aunt and uncle to let her spend Easter break with the Malfoys had taken countless letters, a fair amount of pleading, and a promise she’d spend the next week at the Burrow. But now she was here, and was determined to prove it was worth all the fuss.
At the base of a sweeping marble staircase stood Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, impeccably dressed of course. Narcissa’s bearing was polite but not overly warm, and Lucius appeared as rigid as she’d expected. Their aloof demeanors hardly surprised Lydia—still, she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of apprehension. This was Draco’s family, after all. If she wanted a future with him, she needed to show them she belonged here.
Draco guided her forward, the heat of his palm against her back giving her courage.
“Mother, Father,” he said, that classic Malfoy smoothness in his voice, “you remember Lydia Prewett.”
Narcissa nodded. “Miss Prewett, welcome to Malfoy Manor. It’s lovely to see you again.”
Lydia forced her expression to remain calm, though her nerves buzzed. “Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
Lucius inclined his head. “Miss Prewett. Welcome.”
She met his gaze, willing herself not to shrink away. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy.”
Narcissa’s eyes flicked between them. “Your journey was pleasant, I trust?”
“Very,” Lydia said, offering a tight but polite smile. “Thank you for inviting me.”
Lucius briefly glanced at Draco. “Draco was… quite adamant about having you here. I take it your relationship has progressed, considering you are now officially courting. It’s not something to take lightly.”
Lydia’s cheeks warmed, but she lifted her chin. “Yes it has. We’re very happy.”
Draco’s touch at her back became a reassuring press. “I thought the holiday would give us a chance to spend more time together—all of us.”
Narcissa offered a small nod. “Dinner will be served soon. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up first?”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied, relieved for the brief reprieve.
“Draco will show you to your room,” Narcissa said.
The moment Lydia and Draco were out of sight, she exhaled slowly. She could practically feel the tension slipping from her shoulders—part nervousness, part anticipation.
“Well done,” Draco murmured, voice low.
She managed a faint, half-smile. “Did you really expect me to trip over myself?”
He chuckled, the warmth in his eyes making her chest flutter. “Never. But they can be… intense.”
He led her to a tall, elegant door at the end of a second-floor hallway. The room inside took her breath away: soaring ceilings, plush furnishings, and a crackling fireplace. The clean lines and quiet luxury were a stark contrast to the cramped chaos she shared with Ginny back home.
“Will this do?” He asked, noticing the look on her face.
She stepped in, running her fingers over the edge of a beautifully carved wardrobe. “It’s absolutely perfect,” she said, and she meant it. He stood beside her, gaze flicking to her lips for just a moment. “You handled my parents better than anyone could, honestly.”
“They’re formidable,” she admitted.
“My mother’s already fond of you, my father… he’ll warm up. Eventually.” Draco brushed a stray lock of hair from her temple, his touch gentle. “Ready for dinner?”
She took a breath and put her occlumency walls in place. “Yes.”
Seated at the dining table, she couldn’t help noticing the hush. It was strangely formal compared to the noisy dinners at the Burrow—no constant chatter, no passing of bowls by hand, no chaotic laughter. Instead, house-elves swept in and out, placing dishes silently. She was aware of Lucius’s observation from across the table. Narcissa turned her attention to Lydia, her voice reserved. “ How are you finding your studies? Draco tells me you’re rather fond of Defense Against the Dark Arts and Ancient Runes.”
Lydia placed her fork down. “They’re going really well. Defense, in particular, is my strongest subject. I’ve been delving into more advanced magic in my free time.”
Lucius’s eyes sharpened the slightest amount. “What kind of advanced magic?”
“Nonverbal casting and mental discipline fascinate me.” She had come to realize that she was a natural Occlumens and Legilimens, not that she would give that away.
To her surprise, he gave a slight approving nod. “Those are skills not every wizard can master, no matter their age.”
Draco chimed in, clearly proud. “She’s far ahead of our classmates. It’s impressive, really.”
She felt a warm flutter in her chest at Draco’s praise, and glanced his way, returning his smile.
Lucius studied their silent exchange with a thoughtful look. “You said your relationship is serious,” He said, his voice as measured as ever. “Draco has made his intentions clear. Are you equally committed, Miss Prewett?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
After a moment, Lucius tilted his head in acceptance. “Good.”
Conversation then shifted to lighter topics: Ministry decisions, wizarding events, Quidditch standings. She felt herself relax and slip into the easy pattern of polite chatter. She couldn’t stop glancing at Draco, though. Each time their eyes met, her heart lifted.
When dinner ended, Narcissa stood. “It’s lovely to have you with us. I do hope you’ll feel at home.”
“Thank you,” she said, genuinely grateful.
Lucius’s goodnight was brief, and she and Draco soon found themselves walking back through the manor’s corridors. She let out a breath, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders.
“You,” Draco said softly, leaning close, “are incredible.” She gave him a half-laugh, half-sigh of relief. He chuckled and his grin turned almost boyish. “Want to see the library?” Lydia’s eyes shone. “Obviously.”
He led her into a vast library with dark finishings but bathed in golden lamplight. Floor-to-ceiling shelves ringed every inch of wall space, with enchanted ladders that rolled on rails. The air carried a faint scent of old parchment. She wandered among the shelves, fingertips trailing over spines. Merlin, she loved places like this. There was a certain mysteriousness, as if every book held a secret. He eventually guided her to a table at the center. From a locked cabinet, he retrieved a thick, leather-bound tome.
The Sacred Twenty-Eight: Lineage and Legacy – First Edition, Restricted Circulation.
Lydia’s curiosity piqued. She brushed her fingers over the embossed title. “I’ve never seen this in the Chamber.”
Draco shook his head. “It came much later—written by Cantankerus Nott in the 1930s. My grandfather knew him.”
She opened the book, scanning the pureblood families listed. A wave of conflicting emotions prickled at the back of her mind. She stopped on the Gaunt family entry, and she felt her stomach clench. She remembered the day she first discovered her connection to Salazar Slytherin—but seeing her ancestors laid bare on these pages hit her differently.
The House of Gaunt is one of the most ancient and sacred bloodlines…
Yet there it was in stark print: the inbreeding, the obsession with purity, the slow descent into ruin and madness. A prickling of embarrassment mingled with anger as she read. She tried to remind herself that that was only one side of her bloodline, but the words felt too real, too close. She shut her eyes, swallowing hard. It was one thing to know academically she came from a tainted line. It was another to see it recorded as a cautionary tale for all to read. Tom Riddle had after all turned into the most feared wizard of their time—did his insanity and cruelty stem from them? You are not them, she thought fiercely, pressing her palm to the page. You never will be. For a heartbeat, she let her imagination run wild—what if she did share some hidden madness with her ancestors? If Tom Riddle had turned dark, could that darkness be buried in her veins too? She had to force herself to breathe slowly and push that fear aside.
“It’s ridiculous,” she muttered, though she wasn’t quite sure if she meant the book or her own spiraling thoughts.
She closed the tome and felt Draco’s presence behind her, quiet and solid. “You okay?” he asked, voice low.
Her shoulder muscles tightened. “I’m fine,” she lied, then grimaced at herself. “Alright, I’m… not completely fine. It’s just unsettling, seeing all that spelled out. Their reputation, the inbreeding, the insanity… it’s not easy to read.”
He sat on the edge of the table, close but not crowding her. “I get it. My mother’s family, the Blacks… They’ve got a history of cousin-marriages, of ignoring madness in the name of purity. I agree we need to keep the lines pure—but cousins or siblings?” He shook his head in distaste.
That made her laugh. “Well technically we are step-cousins.”
He blanched, “what?”
She giggled even more at his reaction. “Well you already know who my biological father is…”
Then it dawned on him. “Ahh…yes. You’re the step-daughter of my dear aunt Bellatrix.” He chuckled, “how could I forget?”
“We may have brushed over that fact in light of other revelations of my family.”
“I suppose so.”
—
The next morning, she woke to an excitable house-elf named Mimsy telling her breakfast would be served soon. After dressing in a fine robe Narcissa had left out, she headed downstairs, following the elf’s lead through the corridors. Narcissa and Draco were already seated at a smaller, bright breakfast table overlooking manicured gardens. The serenity of the Manor still felt surreal—no Weasley-style morning clamor here.
“Good morning,” Narcissa said kindly, gesturing for her to join them. “I trust you slept well?”
She slid into the seat beside Draco. “Very well, thank you. It’s so peaceful here.”
“Please, help yourself,” she offered, indicating the spread of pastries, fruit, and tea.
Draco poured Lydia a cup, shooting her an affectionate look. “We were discussing plans for the day,” he said. “Mother suggested a walk around the gardens later.”
Lydia smiled. “I’d love that. I keep staring at them from my window.”
Narcissa’s eyes lit up slightly. “I spend a great deal of time on those gardens. Magic can do wonders, but a careful hand keeps them thriving.”
They ate companionably. She felt a growing sense of ease—there was a gentle routine here she hadn’t expected. Afterward, Draco left to fly on the estate’s Quidditch pitch, which gave Narcissa and Lydia some time alone on the terrace. Over a second pot of tea, Narcissa’s gaze turned thoughtful.
“Draco speaks very highly of you,” she said softly, cup cradled in her slender fingers.
She felt her cheeks warm. “He means everything to me. We’ve built a lot of trust.”
Narcissa offered a small nod of approval. “I see that. You must understand, though, that a serious courtship between wizarding families can draw attention. Draco can handle it, but can you?”
“Yes,” Lydia replied without hesitation. She’d already braced herself for what society might say, had already dealt with the scrutiny from those closest to her. “I’m prepared for whatever comes our way.”
She seemed satisfied. “Good. Discretion and poise will serve you well. Lucius and I learned long ago how crucial they are.” Her eyes flicked over Lydia. “From what I see, Draco chose wisely.”
A surge of pride filled her. “That means a great deal to me.”
Narcissa hesitated, then gave a smile that reached her eyes. “He’s happier with you than I’ve ever seen him. And for that, you have my gratitude. In recent years courtships at your age have not been common, but I’m glad to know you two are honoring centuries of tradition.”
They chatted about lighter things after that, upcoming gatherings, the intricacies of wizarding etiquette, Narcissa’s tips on hosting dignitaries. Lydia listened intently, intrigued. It all felt like a different world than the cozy, chaotic Burrow, but she had to admit—she was beginning to love it here. Near the end of their tea, Narcissa broached a topic Lydia was most certainly hoping to avoid—her father. “I am curious, do you know who your father is? It’s rumoured that your mother never told anyone.”
She fidgeted with her hands the slightest bit, “I don’t want to lie to you, so I will say that I do know, however I don’t know if it’s best for me to say.”
Narcissa raised an eyebrow, “Interesting, I am sorry for bringing up an uncomfortable topic, but if you are to marry my son one day, I need to know that his heirs will be… pure.”
An uncomfortable silence settled over them. Before Lydia could respond, “You may tell me or not tell me, but I promise it will not leave this room.”
Lydia took in her expression and realized that she was being completely truthful, she felt a sense of trust between them. That this was someone she could confide in, someone that actually lived in his world. “Umm well… it’s Rodolphus Lestrange.” She looked at Draco’s mother nervously. Of course she would know the name, the man is married to her sister and has been in Azkaban for years.
Her eyes sharpened, “I see,” after a moment, “I assume you know where he is?”
Lydia nodded.
“Very well, I will not tell a soul. Even though my sister is… away, it would be best if no one knew of this information.”
Lydia gave her a small sad smile, “I agree. Umm—could you tell me about him? And your sister?”
Narcissa regarded her for a long moment, as if weighing the request. Her teacup, now nearly empty, rested in her hand. A flicker of something—nostalgia? Sadness?—passed behind her pale blue eyes. Finally, she set the cup down with a soft clink and folded her hands in her lap.
“My sister,” Narcissa began quietly, “was always headstrong, selfish, and unrelenting. Even as children, she was more cruel than most. I’ll always love her—and I do miss her—but she changed dramatically when the Dark Lord rose to power. She became obsessed with him and his cause. I was closer to Bellatrix than to our other sister, Andromeda, though that’s not saying much now. Bella sits in Azkaban alongside her husband—your father—for some particularly distasteful crimes. Now Rodolphus, he was a quiet man. Cruel, yes, and deeply devoted to the Dark Lord, but quiet. He did his work well, and without question. I believe his marriage to Bella was born of alliance and bloodline preservation, not love. I was never close to him. It is… surprising, to say the least, that he somehow found his way to a Prewett—someone who stood on the opposite side of the war.”
“I see,” said Lydia. She knew they were bad people, but hearing it straight from the source of someone who knew them made it more real. She gave a small, almost embarrassed shrug. “I suppose that’s part of why my mother never told anyone. The irony of it all.”
She looked at her sadly, but not pitying. “It is too bad that she didn’t live through the war. She would be proud of you.”
Lydia wasn’t so sure of that. “Thank you. And your other sister? Andromeda?”
“Andromeda,” she repeated, as though tasting the name after a long absence. “She was the middle child. Clever, rebellious, and never quite satisfied with the world we were born into. She left it behind without looking back—fell in love with a muggleborn, married him, and disgraced the family name. My parents burned her off the family tree the moment they found out and we were told never to speak of her again.”
She furrowed her brow, taking in Narcissa's words. All she could do was nod, unsure how to respond.
—
Later, Lydia curled up in a deep loveseat in the far corner of the manor’s library, half-lost in the pages of a worn book. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering light across the marble floor. Aside from the gentle rustle of pages turning, the room was quiet—until the creak of the door broke the silence. She glanced up, just in time to see Draco step into the room.
He was still flushed from Quidditch, hair tousled from the wind, a light sheen of sweat glistening at his forehead and along the curve of his throat, his robes clinging just enough to show the lean muscle beneath.
Her pulse quickened immediately. Her gaze lingered on him, a slow, appreciative sweep that didn’t go unnoticed. He grinned, eyes glinting. “Caught you staring, Prewett.”
She tilted her head, lips curling. “I can’t help it when you look that good.”
He stopped in front of her, gaze dipping briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “Can I sit?”
She didn’t say anything. Just reached for his hand.
He took it without hesitation, and she pulled him down into the loveseat with her—awkwardly at first, both of them laughing quietly as they tried to untangle limbs until she ended up sideways across his lap, her arm around his shoulders, his around her waist.
He leaned in first, brushing a kiss to her temple. Then her cheek. Then her lips. It started slow. Gentle. Familiar. But the moment her hand slipped into his hair and he deepened the kiss, something inside her flared—heat and want and nervous excitement curling low in her core.
Her breath hitched. She shifted in his lap, facing him now, straddling his thighs. He looked up at her, eyes smoky and unreadable. She bit her lip. “Draco…”
He trailed soft, heated kisses along her jawline, then lower, brushing against the curve of her throat. She tilted her head, eyes fluttering shut as her pulse raced beneath his mouth. His hands slid down her sides, fingers pressing into her hips possessively. Her fingers tangled in his hair, urging him closer.
One of his hands slipped beneath her skirt, fingers finding bare skin. He gripped her thigh, trailing kisses lower along her neck. Then his hand moved higher—slow, deliberate—until it cupped her warmth.
They’d been together for months now. They had kissed a hundred times. Touched. Teased. But never like this.
He slid her knickers aside, slipping a finger inside, and her breath caught. The sensation was new—foreign—but exquisite. It felt different—more real than the times she’d touched herself. She would think of him in the privacy of her bed, his hands on her, and now they finally were.
“Is that—do you want me to stop?” he murmured.
She shook her head quickly. “No. Keep going.”
Encouraged, he eased another finger inside, watching her expression carefully. She was warm, wet, and achingly ready for him. He curled his fingers just right, into her sweet spot—again and again—until her moans grew louder, her grip on him tighter. His thumb found her clit and moved in slow, perfect circles.
“Draco,” she moaned, voice trembling. “I—I’ve never felt anything like this.”
Her blouse was hanging open now, her body flushed, her heart wild in her chest. He kissed the curve of her neck, then lower, his lips finding the soft skin above her breast. When he took one of her nipples into his mouth, her back arched and she let out a sound she didn’t know she could make.
“Draco,” she gasped, voice cracking, “I—I think I—”
He kissed her, voice thick with feeling. “I’ve got you. Let go.”
Her body tensed, then shattered against him, her moan muffled by his shoulder as she came. He held her through it, kept his fingers moving gently, softly, helping her ride the waves.
He wrapped his arms around her, lips brushing her ear as he whispered, voice thick with affection and pride, “How was that, little witch?”
She couldn’t answer. Words failed her. She only nodded into his shoulder, body boneless in his arms, entirely undone—and entirely his.
—
Over the next few days, she spent hours exploring the Malfoys’ lush gardens, each winding path revealing a new delight—enchanted rose bushes, marble fountains, carefully trimmed hedges. She loved how peaceful the estate felt, and Draco made sure she wanted for nothing: flowers waiting in her room every morning, her favorite tea at precisely the right temperature, and a steady stream of thoughtful gestures. It was ridiculous.
One afternoon, the tiny house-elf Mimsy bounded up to Lydia. Clipboard in hand, she squeaked out an eagerness to schedule Lydia’s every minute—picnics near the koi pond, walks in the garden, everything meticulously planned.
Draco just shook his head in amusement. “She’s never been this enthusiastic about anyone. I’m starting to get jealous.”
Mimsy seemed to pop up everywhere, organizing her belongings and tidying her room, all while cooing, “Mimsy is so happy to serve Miss Lydia! Miss Lydia is practically family!”
The comment made Lydia’s cheeks warm. Family. Something about that made her chest tighten in a strangely sweet way.
That evening, Narcissa approached Lydia in the sunlit parlor. “Mimsy clearly adores you,” she remarked. “She’s happier serving you than she’s ever been here.”
Lydia nodded, affection welling for the excitable elf. “She’s been wonderful. I’ve never had anyone fuss over me like this.”
Narcissa gave a small nod. “Then you should keep her. I’d like to transfer her service to you, if you’re willing.”
Lydia blinked. “You’d let me take her?”
“If you’ll have her,” Narcissa said, her tone both gracious and matter-of-fact. “We have plenty of elves, and Mimsy’s made her preference clear.”
Mimsy practically burst into happy tears, squeaking, “Mimsy belongs with Mistress Lydia!”
Draco watched the scene with a half-smile, clearly amused by Lydia’s wide-eyed reaction. She couldn’t comprehend how this was happening. A house elf? Just for her?
“Don’t worry, dear. It’s customary during a courtship for the mother to give a gift. Most young witches already have a house-elf, but since you do not, I thought she would be perfect.”
Gratitude and a faint sense of awe coursed through Lydia as she signed the magical contract. “You really don’t need to do this.” she managed to blurt out. “This is… more than I expected.” An understatement.
Narcissa studied her for a moment, then continued in that warm, cultured voice. “I have another gift to offer as well. I’d like to take you to Paris for a new wardrobe.”
Her eyes went round. “Paris?” This day was becoming more absurd by the minute. If only her younger self could see her now.
Narcissa’s gaze flicked over Lydia’s clothes. “You’ve been living with the Weasleys. I’m sure you’ve managed well enough, but Draco’s companion should have robes of finer quality. Everything’s already arranged.”
Draco smirked teasingly. “Don’t let her bury you under more shoes than exist in Britain.”
Narcissa arched a refined brow. “Better more than too few.”
Once Narcissa had wandered off, Lydia gave him a sharp look. “Did you put her up to this?”
He laughed, “well I may have mentioned that the Weasleys have you doing chores and you could do with a house elf. That is true, but my main intention was that you would have help in the chamber. I would call one of mine to assist, but they’re also bound to my mother and father—and I didn’t want anything to slip.”
She stared at him in amazement. Is it possible to love him even more?
“The whole Paris trip was all her doing, I had no idea.” He shrugged.
She rolled her eyes at him. He was insane. Wonderful. But insane.
—
Paris felt like a dream. The moment Lydia and Narcissa stepped from the Apparition point into Place Cachée—the wizarding district in the city—her senses were overwhelmed.The spires and rooftops of old Paris stretched in every direction, blending Muggle splendor with bewitching twists of wizard architecture.
They stopped first at a stunning storefront with tall glass windows displaying floating mannequins draped in shimmering fabrics. The mannequins turned every few seconds, each dress or robe shifting color in the sunlight. Inside, the atelier was a vision of polished mahogany floors and softly glowing orbs hovering near the ceiling. Swatches of fabric hovered around them like curious butterflies, occasionally drifting close to Lydia’s shoulders as if sizing her up. The owner was a petite witch with silver hair piled high in an elegant twist, bustled forward.
“Madame Malfoy!” she exclaimed, bowing respectfully. “Always a pleasure.”
“Madame, this is Lydia. She will be making a number of purchases today.”
“Of course. We shall begin with day robes, yes? And then we will address formal pieces and accessories.”
She found herself swept into a swirl of measuring tapes and floating pins. The first robe she tried was made of moonspun velvet, so soft it felt like a second skin. Another was pale lavender with subtle silver thread that changed tone in different lighting. A more formal midnight-blue gown practically took Lydia’s breath away. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, hardly recognizing herself.
Narcissa hovered nearby, occasionally instructing the seamstresses. “A touch more structure at the waist,” or “Yes, that color suits her complexion perfectly.”
It was overwhelming, but in the best way. She felt caught in a pleasant whirlwind—nothing like the used or ill-fitting robes she’d worn in the past. Ginny would die of jealousy.
Next, they visited a shoe boutique where enchanted footwear stood on towering shelves. She tried on sleek grey heels, and strappy obsidian sandals with tiny crystals that flickered like starlight. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror and had to stifle a grin. Merlin, who was this polished, stylish witch?
Finally, at a jeweler’s, they admired necklaces, bracelets, and rings embedded with stones rumored to be meteorites or mermaid treasures. Narcissa guided her to a case containing delicate pendant necklaces. One piece, a fine silver chain with a teardrop-shaped crystal, captured her eye. Within the crystal, a faint swirl of opalescent color shifted like a living rainbow. The shopkeeper explained it was an Iris Stone, known for subtly matching the wearer’s emotional aura.
They also tried on bracelets—one a thin band of platinum entwined with emerald-laced serpents, paying a subtle nod to Slytherin. Another was a rose-gold cuff that shimmered with protective enchantments. “Excellent for formal gatherings,” Narcissa said approvingly, “especially if you’d like that extra layer of security.”
Earrings followed—small silver ones that matched Draco’s eyes, or so Narcissa teased—and a pair of dangling quartz drops that lit with a faint glow in dim lighting.
Mimsy dutifully recorded each purchase, using shrinking spells to store it all neatly. By lunchtime, Lydia felt giddy with gratitude. She and Narcissa stopped at a sunlit café, nibbling on pastries and sipping fragrant tea.
“This is beyond anything I imagined,” Lydia admitted, glancing at the shopping bags Mimsy held. A wave of emotion welled in her—gratitude, wonder, a tiny edge of disbelief. She couldn’t help thinking how Aunt Molly might react to all this.Would she be happy for her? Or upset?
Narcissa’s expression was warm. “You’re an extraordinary young witch. It’s time you had a wardrobe to match. Call me Narcissa, by the way. We needn’t be so formal.”
Lydia smiled, heart full. “Thank you… Narcissa. Please call me Lydia.”
Narcissa inclined her head. “It’s my pleasure, Lydia.”
They rose from their table, stepping back into the crisp Parisian afternoon. She inhaled the magical energy in the air, letting it fill her lungs. She felt radiant and newly confident, a sense of belonging curling gently around her heart. Narcissa placed a hand on Lydia’s shoulder in a gesture that felt almost motherly.
“Now,” Narcissa said, eyes glinting with the faintest trace of mischief, “shall we find a gift for Draco?”
Lydia broke into a bright, excited grin. “I’d love to.”