Bound by Fate

Chapter 3: A Thin Line

Draco stood in the hallway outside her room, the door closed behind him, but the sound of her ragged breathing and quiet sobs still echoed in his mind. His hands were shaking—he hadn't realized it until now. He clenched them into fists, trying to steady himself, but it didn't help. The image of her lying on that bed, broken and battered, wouldn't leave him.

He had always known his father was a monster. He'd seen the cruelty, heard the whispers. But seeing Hermione like that, knowing what had just happened, twisted something deep inside him. It was worse than he had imagined. Worse than he could have ever prepared himself for.

He had told himself for years that he was different. That he wasn't like Lucius. That he didn't take pleasure in the suffering of others, even if his role as a Death Eater demanded cruelty. He could stomach the violence, the torture—but this? What his father had done to Hermione was beyond anything he could rationalize.

He paced the hallway, trying to quiet the storm of conflicting emotions inside him. The house was silent, but it felt like the walls were closing in on him. He needed to get away. To clear his head.

But where could he go? This was his home. His prison.

She hates you, a voice whispered in his mind. She'll never trust you. Not after this.

Draco's jaw tightened as he continued pacing. Of course, she hated him. She had every right to. He had done nothing to stop what had happened. He had stood by, knowing his father would do something unspeakable to her, and he had done nothing.

No. That wasn't true.

He had done something.

He had gone to her room. After it was too late. After the damage had already been done. He had crouched beside her, pretended to offer comfort. What a sick joke. She probably thought he was there to claim her next, just like his father had.

Draco slammed his fist into the wall, the dull pain grounding him for a moment. He stared at his knuckles, blood welling up from the split skin. The pain was good. It was something real. Something he could control.

But it didn't change the fact that Hermione was upstairs, alone, probably terrified out of her mind. It didn't change what his father had done.

Draco knew he had to do something. But what? He couldn't defy his father—not openly. Not without risking everything. And yet, the thought of doing nothing was unbearable.

The walls of Malfoy Manor were lined with portraits of their ancestors, generations of purebloods who had enforced their superiority with blood and terror. Draco had always hated those portraits, hated the way they stared at him, as if daring him to be the one who would break the Malfoy legacy.

He turned on his heel and marched down the hall, his footsteps heavy on the marble floor. His mind was spinning, but he knew one thing: he couldn't let his father destroy her. He wouldn't. Hermione was...different. She had always been different.

Draco paused when he reached the study. The heavy oak door stood ajar, a low murmuring coming from inside. He could hear his father's voice, calm and measured as always, discussing something with a visitor. Probably another one of Voldemort's loyalists, here to toast their victory over the resistance.

The thought made him sick.

He wasn't going to confront Lucius now. That would be suicide. But he needed to be ready. He needed to find a way to protect her, even if it meant going behind his father's back.

Draco headed toward his own chambers, the long, dark hallways of the manor feeling more oppressive than ever. His room was the only place where he could think clearly, where he could pretend, for just a moment, that he wasn't a part of this nightmare.

Hermione lay in the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The world felt distant, muffled, like she was underwater. Her body ached—her wrists were bruised, her thighs throbbed where Lucius's fingers had left dark imprints on her skin—but it was the hollowness inside her that consumed her.

She hadn't cried. Not really. She had sobbed briefly after Draco left, but the tears hadn't come. She felt empty. Numb.

She didn't want to think about what had happened. She couldn't. If she let herself think about it, she would break. And she couldn't afford to break. Not here. Not now.

But it was impossible to ignore. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face. His smirk. The gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. Lucius Malfoy had taken something from her that she could never get back, and he had done it with all the ease and cruelty of a man who had done it a thousand times before.

Hermione had faced horrors during the war. She had fought in battles, seen her friends die, endured more pain and suffering than she ever thought possible. But this... this was different. This was personal.

She wanted to scream, to tear the room apart, to do something. But her body wouldn't move. She was trapped in her own skin, trapped in this nightmare.

She wasn't sure how long she lay there, unmoving, before the door creaked open again. Her body tensed instinctively, every muscle coiling in fear. She half-expected to see Lucius again, coming to finish what he had started.

But it wasn't Lucius.

It was Draco.

He stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he looked at her. He didn't speak, didn't move closer. He just stood there, watching her.

Hermione's heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of fear and confusion swirling inside her. She didn't know what he wanted. She didn't know if she could trust him. The memory of his father's hands on her skin was too fresh, too raw.

"Why are you here?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Draco looked away for a moment, as if he was unsure of what to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost hesitant. "I just... I wanted to make sure you were... okay."

Hermione let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "Okay?" she repeated, her voice trembling with anger and disbelief. "Do I look okay to you, Malfoy?"

Draco flinched at her words, but he didn't respond. He just stood there, silent, watching her with an expression that was hard to read.

"I don't need your pity," she spat, her voice rising with the anger that had been simmering inside her. "You think you can just waltz in here and pretend you care? You're no different from him."

Draco's face hardened at that, his jaw clenching. "I'm not like him," he said quietly, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion. "I'm not."

Hermione's eyes narrowed, her hands curling into fists as she glared at him. "Then prove it."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and challenging.

Draco looked at her for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Hermione stared at the door long after he had gone, her chest heaving with the effort to keep herself together. She didn't know what she had expected him to say. She didn't know what she wanted from him.

But one thing was certain: Draco Malfoy was not the man she had thought he was. Whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen.