Bound by Fate

Chapter 5: The Weight of Survival

Hermione stared at the closed door long after Draco had left, her chest heaving with the remnants of anger and fear. The room felt colder without him in it, a stark reminder of the isolation that was beginning to sink into her bones. The weight of everything—the assault, the hopelessness, Draco's confusing actions—was pressing down on her with a force that made it hard to breathe.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees, and tried to make sense of what she was feeling. Every time she tried to focus, the image of Lucius Malfoy's twisted grin flashed in her mind, making her stomach lurch. She could still feel his hands on her skin, rough and cold, violating her in ways she could never fully articulate. The memory of his voice, mocking and cruel, sent chills down her spine.

But it wasn't just Lucius that haunted her now. Draco's presence lingered too—his words, his touch, the anger in his eyes when she called him a coward. There was a part of her that wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that he was different from his father, that maybe, just maybe, there was a shred of humanity left in him.

But that part of her was so small, so fragile, that it was barely recognizable amid the storm of rage and pain.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push it all away. She couldn't afford to think about Draco right now. She had to stay focused, had to stay sharp if she was going to survive this. But survival felt like such a distant, abstract concept in the face of everything she had endured. What did it even mean to survive here? To continue breathing while the world around her crumbled, while her body became a battleground for the whims of the Malfoys?

Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her face, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. She felt suffocated by her own helplessness, by the horror of knowing she had no control over what happened to her anymore. Lucius had made sure of that. He had stripped away her dignity, her agency, and left her with nothing but shame and the bitter taste of fear.

Hermione had always been strong. Even when the war seemed hopeless, even when her friends fell around her, she had always been the one to hold them together. She had fought, strategized, and survived. But now, for the first time, she wasn't sure if she could keep going. She wasn't sure if she wanted to.

The thought scared her more than anything.

Hermione had always prided herself on her resilience, on her ability to endure. But Lucius had broken something inside her, something fundamental. She didn't know if it could be fixed.

Her fingers traced the bruises on her wrists, the marks left by the ropes that had bound her, and the bile rose in her throat. She tried to swallow it down, but the nausea only grew stronger, and before she knew it, she was stumbling to the side of the bed, retching violently onto the floor. The heaving lasted far longer than it should have, leaving her gasping and weak.

When the dry heaves finally stopped, she collapsed back onto the bed, curling into herself. Her body shook with sobs she couldn't control, her chest aching with the weight of it all. She hated this. She hated the way she felt, the way her body had betrayed her, the way her mind wouldn't stop reliving every agonizing moment of the night before.

But most of all, she hated that she felt like she was losing herself.

Hermione had always been so sure of who she was. She had been the girl who defied expectations, the girl who stood up for what was right, no matter the cost. But now? Now she didn't know who she was anymore. She was lost, drowning in a sea of emotions she couldn't control, couldn't even begin to make sense of.

Why didn't I fight harder? The question kept looping through her mind, cruel and relentless. Why did I let him do this to me?

But deep down, she knew it wasn't her fault. She knew that Lucius Malfoy had taken away her power, her ability to resist, and left her with no choice. She knew that he was the monster, not her. But knowing didn't stop the guilt from creeping in. It didn't stop the self-loathing from taking root.

She felt like a stranger in her own skin, a skin that had been touched and violated in ways she couldn't comprehend. She wanted to tear it off, to rid herself of the memories, the shame, the pain. But she couldn't. She was trapped in this body, in this place, and there was no escape.

Hours passed, but they felt like days. Hermione lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind numb. She tried to think of anything else—of Harry, of Ron, of the life she had before all of this—but it felt distant, like something that had happened to someone else. The Hermione Granger who had fought alongside her friends, who had believed in hope and justice, felt like a ghost now.

What would they say if they saw her like this? If they knew what had happened to her? Would they pity her? Would they hate her for not being strong enough? For letting this happen?

The thought of them knowing, of anyone knowing, filled her with shame so intense it felt like her chest was being crushed. She didn't want to be seen like this, didn't want anyone to know how broken she was.

But you're not broken, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind. Not yet.

Hermione's eyes flickered toward the door, her pulse quickening. She wasn't broken. Not completely. Not yet. As long as she was still breathing, as long as her heart still beat, she wasn't broken.

Lucius hadn't won. He had taken so much from her, but he hadn't taken everything.

Hermione sat up slowly, her body protesting the movement. She winced, biting back a cry as the pain flared in her abdomen, but she pushed through it. She had to. She wasn't going to lie here any longer. She wasn't going to let herself wither away in this room.

She was going to survive.

The thought burned in her chest, small but fierce. She didn't know how, didn't know what would come next, but she knew one thing: she wasn't going to let them break her. Not Lucius, not Draco, not anyone.

She stood up, her legs trembling beneath her, but she didn't fall. She took a shaky step toward the window, her breath coming in slow, deliberate inhales. The night outside was pitch black, the moon hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. But Hermione could still see the outline of the trees in the distance, the faintest sliver of life beyond the walls of Malfoy Manor.

It was enough.

It had to be.

Hermione placed her hand against the cold glass, her fingers trembling. She didn't know if she could escape, didn't know if she would ever be free again. But she was still here. She was still alive.

And as long as she was alive, she had a chance.