Bound by Fate

Chapter 2: Malfoy's Claim

The atmosphere inside Malfoy Manor felt like poison, suffocating, its chill creeping into Hermione's bones as she was dragged along the dark corridors. Her body was battered, her wrists raw from the ropes that had bitten into her skin. Every step felt heavier, her legs threatening to collapse beneath her, but she forced herself to stay upright. She refused to let them see her break.

Lucius Malfoy walked ahead of her, his gait smooth and unhurried, as if this was nothing more than another ordinary night for him. The light from the chandeliers overhead cast long shadows across his face, emphasizing the coldness in his eyes, the cruelty that had become his trademark.

Hermione's thoughts raced, but her exhaustion made it difficult to focus. She knew where she was being taken. Knew what awaited her beyond the door at the end of the hallway. The stories she had heard about Lucius—about what he did to people like her—had been enough to make her sick with fear. Now, she was about to live it.

They reached a large, ornate door, and Lucius stopped, turning to face her with a smirk. He raised his hand, motioning for the Death Eaters holding her to throw her inside. Hermione hit the cold stone floor with a grunt, pain shooting through her limbs as she landed hard on her side. She struggled to push herself up, but her body wouldn't obey.

Lucius stepped into the room, his presence overwhelming as he closed the door behind him with a soft, deliberate click. The room was dimly lit, and every surface seemed to radiate cold. It was stifling.

"This," Lucius began, his voice low and controlled, "is your new home, Mudblood." His lips curled into a smile that made her stomach twist. "Here, you will learn to obey."

Hermione struggled to sit up, glaring at him through the pain. She wanted to fight, wanted to scream, but her strength was gone. She had nothing left.

Lucius crouched down beside her, his face inches from hers. "You're going to wish you had died in that war," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "But I'm going to make sure you stay alive—just long enough to understand what true suffering feels like."

Hermione's heart raced, her breath coming in short gasps. She knew what was coming. She had heard the stories. She had seen the broken women who had been taken by Death Eaters, who had never spoken of what happened but whose haunted eyes told the truth.

Lucius grabbed her by the hair, yanking her to her feet with a sharp tug. She let out a gasp of pain, her scalp burning as he dragged her toward the bed at the center of the room.

"Don't fight me," he hissed, his voice taking on a sickeningly sweet tone. "It'll only make things worse."

She struggled, pulling against his grip, but it was useless. He was too strong, and she was too weak. Her mind screamed at her to run, to do something, but her body had nothing left to give.

He threw her onto the bed, and Hermione's vision blurred as her head hit the pillow. She blinked, trying to focus, trying to stay conscious, but the world was spinning. Lucius hovered over her, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure as he slowly began to unbutton his robe.

"Let's see how much fight is left in you," he said softly, his voice dripping with malice.

Hermione's throat tightened as panic clawed at her. She tried to roll away, but he was on her in an instant, pinning her down with his weight. His hand gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at him.

"You don't get to say no," he sneered, his other hand moving to tear at her clothes. "Not anymore."

Hermione's mind screamed, but her body was paralyzed, frozen by fear and pain. She could feel his hands, cold and rough, as he ripped her shirt open, exposing her skin to the chill of the room. She fought back tears, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood.

Lucius's laughter echoed in her ears as he pushed her legs apart, his fingers digging into her thighs with bruising force. She wanted to scream, to fight, but she couldn't. She was trapped, powerless against him.

The next moments were a blur of agony and humiliation. Hermione's mind retreated, trying to distance herself from the horror of what was happening, but she couldn't escape. Every touch, every word, every breath was burned into her memory, a sickening reminder of her helplessness.

When it was over, Lucius stood, his robe falling back into place as he looked down at her with satisfaction.

"Consider this a lesson," he said coldly. "There's more where that came from."

Hermione lay motionless on the bed, her body shaking, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She didn't respond. She couldn't. The weight of what had just happened pressed down on her like a crushing force, suffocating her.

Lucius smirked, turning toward the door. "Don't think this is over," he called over his shoulder. "I'll be back."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Hours passed in a haze of pain and exhaustion. Hermione remained where Lucius had left her, too broken to move, her mind swirling with the horror of what had just occurred. The darkness of the room pressed in on her, suffocating, and she wanted to disappear. To sink into nothingness and escape the nightmare she found herself in.

She wasn't sure how long she had lain there before the door creaked open again. The sound made her flinch, her body tensing involuntarily. But this time, it wasn't Lucius.

Draco Malfoy stepped into the room, his expression blank, but his eyes filled with something she hadn't seen before. He looked at her—really looked at her—and for a moment, Hermione saw a flicker of emotion in his usually cold gaze.

He stood still, just inside the door, his eyes scanning the room before finally landing on her broken form. There was a brief moment of hesitation, but then he crossed the room in a few strides, kneeling beside her.

"Granger," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Hermione didn't respond. Her throat felt raw, and her body wouldn't move. She stared at him through blurred vision, wondering if this was just another part of the nightmare.

Draco's hand hovered over her arm for a moment before he gently—surprisingly gently—helped her sit up. His touch was cautious, almost hesitant, as though he was afraid of breaking her further.

Hermione's body trembled under his touch, but she didn't pull away. She didn't have the strength. She just sat there, silent, staring at him with eyes that no longer had the capacity to express emotion.

"Are you... alright?" Draco asked, though the answer was painfully obvious.

Hermione's lips parted, but no words came. How could she answer that? How could she even begin to describe the horror of what had just happened?

Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair, his expression conflicted. He opened his mouth to speak again, but then stopped, his eyes darkening.

"I'm not like him," he muttered, more to himself than to her. His voice was strained, like it hurt to admit it. "Not with you."

Hermione flinched at his words. The disgust, the rage that had been numbed by shock, began to simmer again.

She shook her head, her voice hoarse and barely more than a whisper. "You're exactly like him."

Draco looked away, his jaw clenching tightly. For a moment, the cold, emotionless mask he usually wore seemed to crack, and Hermione caught a glimpse of something else beneath the surface. Guilt. Shame.

But she didn't care. She couldn't. Not after what had just happened.

Draco stood, backing away from her slowly. "I'm not," he whispered again, his voice tight.

He left the room without another word, closing the door softly behind him.

Hermione collapsed onto the bed, tears finally spilling from her eyes. She lay there, trembling, the weight of what had been done to her settling over her like a shroud.

She was broken. She didn't know if she would ever be whole again.