Bound by Fate

Chapter 11: Breaking Down

Hermione hurried back to her room, her footsteps light but her heart heavy with the weight of what she had just overheard. Her mind was spinning—Lucius Malfoy was dead. The man who had tortured her, broken her, was gone. She should have felt relief. She should have felt a sense of freedom. But instead, her emotions were tangled in a mess of confusion, fear, and something she didn't want to name.

She closed the door behind her quietly, leaning against it for a moment as her knees buckled beneath her. The room, small and dark, felt like a prison again. The brief solace she had found in the library vanished as the reality of everything crashed down on her.

Lucius is dead. Draco is in control now.

The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but it wasn't Draco that haunted her in that moment—it was Lucius. The memory of his touch, his voice, his hands on her skin. It was all still there, lingering in her mind like a poison she couldn't purge.

She pushed off the door, her body trembling as she made her way toward the small adjoining bathroom. She hadn't had the strength or will to take care of herself since her capture, but now... she needed to feel clean. She needed to do something to regain a small piece of herself.

The room was dimly lit, the cold tile sending a sharp shock up her bare feet as she stepped inside. She turned on the tap, watching as the water slowly filled the tub. Steam began to rise, curling in soft wisps through the air. The sound of running water filled the silence, but it did nothing to drown out the storm of emotions in her mind.

Hermione caught sight of herself in the mirror and froze.

She stared at the reflection, unable to recognize the girl who looked back at her. The face in the mirror was gaunt, her cheeks hollow, dark circles beneath her eyes. Her skin was pale, marred by bruises that had yet to fade. The remnants of Lucius's cruelty were etched into her skin—purple splotches on her wrists, around her neck, and across her ribs. She could see the faint streaks of dried blood, crusted along the side of her cheek and the corner of her mouth.

Her eyes, once bright and full of fire, were dull, sunken. Dead.

Hermione's breath hitched as she reached up, her fingers brushing lightly over the bruises on her neck. The touch sent a sharp, painful reminder of everything that had been taken from her. She hadn't allowed herself to fully process it, hadn't let herself feel the full weight of her trauma.

But now, standing in front of the mirror, there was no escape. The evidence of her suffering was right in front of her, undeniable. The girl she had once been was gone, replaced by this shadow of a person—broken, battered, and unrecognizable.

Her body shook as she stepped closer to the mirror, her eyes tracing the bruises, the cuts, the too-skinny frame she had tried to ignore. The weight she had lost from days without proper food, the way her ribs jutted out beneath her skin—it all stared back at her, an ugly truth she could no longer run from.

And then, the floodgates opened.

A sob tore from her throat, sudden and violent, as Hermione collapsed to the floor. She clutched the edge of the sink, her fingers gripping the cold porcelain as tears streamed down her face. The dam she had been holding inside her for so long broke, and the pain, the fear, the shame—all of it came rushing out in a wave that she couldn't control.

She cried, harder and louder than she ever had before, the sound raw and guttural. It ripped through the silence of the manor, a sound so filled with agony and relief that it echoed off the walls like a scream.

Lucius was dead. He was gone. She would never have to face him again, never have to feel his hands on her skin, his voice in her ear. The knowledge should have brought her peace. But instead, it only magnified the brokenness inside her.

She wept for her body, for the bruises that reminded her of the horrors she had endured. She wept for her mind, shattered and fragile, haunted by the memories of what had been done to her. She wept for the person she used to be—the strong, confident girl who had fought in a war and believed in justice. That girl was gone, and she didn't know if she would ever get her back.

The sobs came in waves, each one more violent than the last, until Hermione was choking on her own breath, her body shaking uncontrollably. She clutched her knees to her chest, curling into herself as if she could make the world disappear if she made herself small enough.

But no matter how hard she cried, the pain didn't leave. It stayed, festering like an open wound.

Through her sobs, she was vaguely aware of the water still running, the steam filling the room, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered in that moment except the overwhelming grief that consumed her.

And yet, amid the pain, there was something else. A glimmer of relief. It was buried deep beneath the layers of sorrow and shame, but it was there—a tiny, fragile spark. Lucius was dead. He couldn't hurt her anymore. No matter what else happened, she was free from him.

Her sobs grew louder, louder than she had intended, louder than she could control. She cried for herself, for the parts of her that had been taken and for the parts she feared she would never get back. She cried for the girl who had been strong, the girl who had survived a war, only to be broken by the hands of a monster.

She cried loud enough for the entire manor to hear.