Bound by Fate

Chapter 4: Fractures

The next morning, the manor was quiet—eerily so. Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, her body aching from the aftermath of Lucius's assault. She hadn't slept, not really. Each time she closed her eyes, memories of the previous night came flooding back, a sickening reminder of what had been taken from her.

Her mind was a whirlwind of fear, anger, and confusion. Fear of what else could happen to her within the cold walls of this place. Anger at Lucius for what he had done—and at herself for not being able to stop him. And confusion about Draco. His appearance in her room had left her shaken in ways she didn't want to admit. The part of her that had known him from school, the part that had spent years believing Draco Malfoy was nothing but a cowardly, entitled bully, couldn't reconcile the man who had looked at her with guilt and—what was it?—regret.

Hermione swallowed, running a hand through her tangled hair. She didn't have time to dissect Draco's motivations. He was still a Malfoy, and as much as she wanted to believe that there was some flicker of humanity left in him, she couldn't afford to be naive. Not now.

She stood slowly, wincing at the sharp pain in her abdomen. Her legs felt weak, but she forced herself to stay upright. She needed to move. She couldn't stay in this room any longer; it felt like a cage, and the walls were closing in.

The door creaked open, and Hermione's heart lurched into her throat. She froze, instinctively stepping back from the bed, her eyes wide as she prepared for the worst. But it wasn't Lucius.

Draco stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked to her briefly before he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words.

Hermione's throat tightened, her body tense. She didn't trust him—she couldn't trust him—but she needed answers.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice harsher than she intended.

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't rise to her challenge. He stood there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his robe, his gaze fixed somewhere just over her shoulder.

"I brought you something to eat," he said, his voice low.

Hermione glanced at the small tray he carried in his hand. Bread, water, and some kind of stew. It was nothing special, but her stomach growled involuntarily at the sight of it. She hadn't eaten in days, but the thought of accepting anything from him made her feel sick.

"I'm not hungry," she lied.

Draco let out a slow breath, setting the tray on the table by the bed. "You need to eat," he muttered, his voice tight with irritation. "You're not doing yourself any favors by starving."

"I'd rather starve than take anything from you," she shot back, the anger she had been holding onto for hours bubbling to the surface. Her hands trembled at her sides, and she clenched them into fists to steady herself.

Draco's face darkened, and for a moment, Hermione thought he might snap. But instead, he sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I'm trying to help you, Granger."

"Help me?" Hermione laughed bitterly. "You want to help me? Then get me out of here."

Draco's jaw clenched, and his eyes flashed with something dangerous. "You think I have that kind of power?" he said quietly, his voice laced with a cold edge. "I'm just as trapped as you are."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat at his words. There was something raw in his tone, something vulnerable. But she wasn't ready to believe him—not yet.

"You could stop him," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You could stop your father."

Draco's face twisted with a mixture of anger and guilt. "You don't know what you're asking," he muttered, turning away from her. His shoulders tensed, and for a moment, Hermione thought he might leave.

But then, to her surprise, he stayed. He stood with his back to her, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"I tried," he whispered, so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

Hermione's breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest. She wasn't sure what to make of his words. She had spent years believing Draco Malfoy was nothing more than a spoiled, self-serving coward. But now, standing here, seeing the tension in his body, hearing the strain in his voice—she didn't know what to think.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence was thick with tension, but it wasn't the same oppressive silence from before. There was something different now. Something that made Hermione's skin prickle with uncertainty.

"I can't stop him," Draco said finally, his voice low. "Not without destroying myself in the process."

Hermione clenched her jaw, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She hated this. She hated being weak, hated being at the mercy of the Malfoys, hated that Draco was standing here trying to explain himself like it made any difference.

"You're just like him," she whispered, her voice trembling with rage. "You're just waiting for your turn."

Draco whirled around, his eyes blazing with fury. "Don't you dare compare me to him," he snarled, stepping toward her.

Hermione flinched, but she didn't back down. She glared up at him, her chest heaving with the weight of everything she'd been holding in. "You could stop this!" she cried. "But you won't! You're too afraid, too weak, too—"

Draco's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, and Hermione's heart leaped into her throat. But his grip wasn't cruel. It wasn't meant to hurt her. It was firm, but gentle. She could feel his pulse, fast and unsteady, beneath her fingertips.

"I'm not him," he said again, his voice quieter now. There was something raw in his eyes, something she had never seen before. "I'm trying."

Hermione stared at him, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She could feel the heat of his hand on her skin, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly.

But the moment passed as quickly as it had come. Draco released her wrist, stepping back, his face hardening again.

"You're right," he muttered, his voice flat. "I can't stop him. I won't stop him."

Hermione's stomach twisted, a sickening wave of nausea crashing over her. She wanted to hit him, to scream, to do something, anything to make him understand. But what was the point? Draco Malfoy had made his choice long ago. He had chosen power, chosen to side with monsters like his father. There was no saving him.

Draco turned away, his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"You can hate me all you want," he said, his voice quiet. "But I'm not the one you need to fear."

With that, he left the room, the door closing softly behind him, leaving Hermione alone in the suffocating silence once again.

Draco stormed down the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing. He couldn't breathe. The walls of the manor felt like they were closing in on him, suffocating him with the weight of his choices. Choices he hadn't made. Choices that had been made for him.

He hadn't meant to lose control like that. He hadn't meant to let her see how much this was tearing him apart. But seeing her like that—seeing the hate in her eyes—it was too much. He had tried to help. He had tried to protect her, but it wasn't enough.

It was never enough.

Draco clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He couldn't stop Lucius. He couldn't change what had already been done. But he could do something.

He just didn't know what yet.