Bound by Fate

Chapter 16: The Wake

Malfoy Manor was heavy with the scent of old wood and incense, the kind meant to cloak the lingering stench of death that clung to its halls. The house had seen more darkness than light in its years, and today was no different. Pureblood families gathered, their black mourning robes stark against the polished floors, their voices hushed as they murmured false condolences.

Lucius Malfoy's death had drawn them all in—families like the Notts, the Greengrasses, the Carrows, and the Lestranges. Old blood, steeped in ancient traditions, each harboring its own loyalties and agenda. They had come to honor a man who had once held power over them all, a man whose name commanded both fear and respect. But more than that, they had come to see who would replace him.

Draco.

He stood near the grand hearth, his face pale but composed. The weight of his father's death hadn't yet left him, and neither had the pressure of the Malfoy legacy. This "wake," as they called it, was more than just a gathering of mourners. It was a test. Every eye was on him, waiting to see if Draco Malfoy was worthy of the name he had inherited.

Narcissa stood beside him, her face an unreadable mask of calm. She had perfected the art of showing no weakness, and today, Draco knew he had to do the same. This wasn't just a gathering of family and friends—it was a battlefield, and every word, every glance, was a weapon.

"Draco," came the cold, silky voice of Rodolphus Lestrange as he approached, his snake-like grin stretched across his face. "Your father would be proud of how you've handled things. You've kept the family name intact—so far."

Draco clenched his jaw, giving Rodolphus a nod but refusing to engage in whatever twisted game the man was playing. Rodolphus had always been one of the most dangerous Death Eaters—ruthless, cunning, and sadistic. Draco's stomach churned as the older man's eyes glinted with something sinister.

"I hope you're prepared for what comes next," Rodolphus continued, his voice dripping with implication. "The cause still needs strong allies, Draco. We wouldn't want to see the Malfoy family fall out of favor."

Before Draco could respond, a voice interrupted, offering condolences in a tone so practiced that Draco barely had to engage. The conversations swirled around him, each one testing his loyalty, his resolve, his place in the new order that was forming in the shadows.

Hermione sat in the farthest corner of her room, listening to the murmur of voices that echoed up from the main hall. She had been instructed to stay in her room, out of sight, hidden from the gaze of those who would see her as nothing more than property—an object.

Lucius had bought her, after all. That was the horrible truth that clung to her like a second skin. Even though he was dead, she could still feel the weight of that transaction.

Krick had been coming in and out, checking on her every now and then, bringing her food and potions to keep her strength up. She appreciated the care, but there was a suffocating sense of isolation in her room. The sounds from the wake below only deepened the feeling. They were mourning a man who had broken her—who had tried to destroy her. And yet she was still here.

A sharp knock at her door jolted her from her thoughts.

The door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside. It was Antonin Dolohov—a man whose reputation made even Lucius's cruelty seem mild. Dolohov had been one of Voldemort's most trusted followers, known for his viciousness during the war. His presence sent a chill down Hermione's spine.

"Granger," he sneered, his eyes narrowing as he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. "I heard a little rumor downstairs. Something about Lucius purchasing a Mudblood for his own personal... entertainment."