Bound by Fate

Chapter 12: The Sound of Shattered Souls

Draco had barely slept. The weight of everything—his father's death, his sudden inheritance of the Malfoy name, the lies he'd have to carry—pressed down on him like a suffocating blanket. He had hoped for relief, for a sense of freedom after his decision to poison Lucius, but instead, the silence of the manor was as stifling as ever.

The study where Lucius had died still felt too close. Draco had spent the night pacing his room, trying to make sense of his next steps, but his thoughts kept drifting back to her. Hermione.

She had been so fragile, so broken, when he found her that first night. He had taken her to the library, hoping it would provide some comfort, some small distraction. But he knew it wasn't enough. Nothing he did would be enough.

He had killed his father for her. For himself. But Lucius's death had changed nothing.

The sudden sound of a scream tore through the quiet, shattering Draco's thoughts.

It was a cry—raw, painful, loud enough to send a chill down his spine. The kind of sound that ripped through the soul, filled with anguish so deep it left a mark on everything around it. He knew instantly where it had come from.

Hermione.

Draco's heart pounded in his chest as he bolted from his room, moving quickly through the darkened halls. The manor seemed even more oppressive in the wake of the scream, the shadows clinging to the walls like ghosts. The closer he got to Hermione's room, the more intense the sound became—sobs, choked and violent, echoing through the air with such force that it felt as though the entire house could hear them.

He hesitated for only a moment outside her door, his hand frozen just above the handle. What was he going to say? What could he do? The truth was, Draco didn't know. He didn't have the answers. All he knew was that he couldn't leave her alone in this.

He knocked softly on the door. "Hermione?"

There was no response, just the continued sound of her cries, loud and unrelenting. The sound was heartbreaking—like something was tearing her apart from the inside out.

Draco took a breath and opened the door, stepping into the room with a sense of caution, as if he were intruding on something sacred. The room was dimly lit, the faint glow from a small lamp casting flickering shadows across the walls. But it was the sight of her that made his chest tighten painfully.

Hermione was curled up on the floor of the bathroom, her knees pulled to her chest, her body trembling as sobs wracked through her. Her hair clung to her tear-streaked face, her skin pale and bruised, and the raw anguish in her eyes as she cried sent a jolt of guilt through him.

She didn't even seem to register his presence at first, too consumed by her own grief, by the tidal wave of emotions that had finally broken free. She was crying harder than he had ever seen anyone cry—her body shaking violently as though the pain would tear her apart.

Draco's throat tightened, his heart hammering in his chest. He had seen Hermione strong. He had seen her defiant. But he had never seen her like this—utterly broken, lost in her suffering.

He knelt beside her, unsure of what to do. He wanted to reach out, to comfort her, but he didn't know if he had the right. He wasn't even sure she would want him here.

"Hermione," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of her sobs. "It's... it's going to be alright."

Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice, her eyes wild with pain and confusion. For a moment, there was no recognition there, just pure, unfiltered agony. Then her gaze softened, and Draco saw something else in her eyes—relief.

But it was fleeting. Her face twisted again as another wave of sobs overtook her, and she buried her face in her hands, her body shaking.

"I—I can't," she choked out, her voice thick with tears. "I can't do this anymore."

Draco's heart clenched at the sound of her voice, the way she sounded so small, so defeated. He hated this—hated seeing her like this, hated that he couldn't fix it. He had done the one thing he thought would make a difference—killed the man who had hurt her—but it wasn't enough.

It would never be enough.

He reached out, hesitating only briefly before placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to do this alone," he said softly, his voice low and steady.

Hermione flinched at the touch, but she didn't pull away. She didn't look up at him, just kept her face buried in her hands, her sobs quieting only slightly. "He's gone," she whispered, her voice broken. "Lucius is dead."

Draco nodded, though the guilt gnawed at him. "Yes. He's gone."

She let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow. "Why do I feel worse?"

The question hung in the air, and Draco didn't know how to answer it. He had asked himself the same thing all night. He had expected to feel something after Lucius died—relief, closure—but instead, all he felt was emptiness. He had killed the man who had haunted both their lives, but the scars Lucius had left behind hadn't vanished with his death.

"I should feel free," Hermione continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "But all I feel is... broken."

Draco's grip on her shoulder tightened slightly. He had no words for her—nothing that could make this better. But he stayed there, kneeling beside her, unwilling to leave her alone in this darkness.

"It's not your fault," Draco whispered after a long pause. "What he did to you—none of it was your fault."

Hermione's sobs slowed, and she shook her head, her voice trembling. "I know. I know that. But I still feel—" Her breath hitched. "I still feel like he won. Like he took everything from me."

Draco's throat tightened again, the weight of her words heavy in the air. He knew what she meant. Lucius had taken so much from both of them. And even in death, his presence lingered, a shadow that couldn't be easily erased.

"You're stronger than him," Draco said softly, his voice steady. "You survived. And that's something he could never take from you."

Hermione let out a shuddering breath, her shoulders sagging as the last of her sobs faded into quiet tears. She didn't respond, but she didn't pull away from him either. The silence between them stretched on, filled with the weight of everything that had happened—everything they couldn't say.

Draco stayed beside her, his hand still on her shoulder, unsure of what else to do. He had killed his father to protect her, to give her a chance at freedom, but he realized now that the damage Lucius had done went deeper than he could ever heal.

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered, his voice barely audible. He wasn't sure if she even heard him.

But Hermione didn't respond. She simply leaned into his touch, her breath ragged but calmer now, as they sat together in the silence of the broken night.