Bound by Fate

Chapter 17: An Unspoken Connection

The manor was eerily quiet after the guests had left, the air heavy with the weight of the evening's events. The last of the pureblood families had been escorted out, their murmurs of confusion and wariness still echoing faintly in Draco's mind. He had stood tall, unyielding, asserting himself in a way he had never done before. But now, the adrenaline that had fueled him was wearing off, leaving behind an ache in his body and a storm of thoughts swirling in his mind.

He couldn't shake the image of Hermione, curled up in fear as Dolohov had cornered her. The fury that had overtaken him, the sheer force of his need to protect her, was unlike anything he had ever felt. And then there was that strange, unsettling feeling—the pull, the instinct that had led him to her at exactly the right moment.

Draco wiped a hand across his face, trying to clear his thoughts. He needed to check on her. He had to make sure she was alright.

His footsteps were soft as he made his way down the darkened corridor toward Hermione's room. The manor seemed even more oppressive at night, its shadows longer and darker, but Draco didn't hesitate. His hands were still throbbing from the beating he'd given Dolohov, but that pain was nothing compared to the knot of anxiety twisting in his gut.

When he reached her door, he knocked gently, his breath catching in his throat as he waited for a response.

"Come in," came Hermione's quiet, weary voice from the other side.

Draco pushed the door open slowly, stepping inside to find Hermione sitting on the edge of her bed. She looked exhausted, her face still pale from the events of the night. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, a mixture of relief and something else—something unspoken—reflected in them.

"You're... okay?" Draco asked awkwardly, unsure of how to start the conversation. He could see the lingering fear in her posture, the way she held herself tightly, as though bracing for something.

Hermione nodded slowly, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. "I'm... I'm fine, thanks to you," she said, her voice hoarse. "I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't—"

She trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence. The thought of what Dolohov might have done if Draco hadn't intervened was too much to bear.

Draco stood by the door for a moment, unsure whether to approach or give her space. Finally, he stepped closer, his hands clenched at his sides to stop the trembling. "How did you know?" Hermione asked softly, her voice hesitant. "How did you know I was in trouble?"

Draco's brow furrowed as he considered the question. He wasn't sure how to explain it—not even to himself. "I don't know," he said quietly, sitting down in the chair across from her. "I just... felt something. It was strange, like this pull. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong."

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly, her confusion evident. "A pull?"

Draco nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. It wasn't like anything I've felt before. One minute, I was downstairs with the guests, and the next... I just knew I had to go to you."

Hermione stared at him, her mind racing. She wanted to dismiss it as a coincidence, to tell him that it was nothing more than his instincts kicking in. But something about the way he described it made her pause. She had felt something too—a connection, almost, like a thread had been tugged between them.

"That's... odd," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "Maybe it was just a coincidence."

Draco shrugged, his expression uncertain. "Maybe." But there was something in the way his voice wavered, something in the tension between them, that made it clear they were both thinking the same thing. Whatever had happened, it wasn't just instinct or coincidence. There was something deeper, something neither of them could quite understand yet.

They sat in silence for a moment, the air between them heavy with unspoken thoughts. Hermione's gaze flicked down to his hands, noticing the cuts and bruises that marred his knuckles. "Your hands," she said softly. "You're hurt."

Draco glanced down at his hands, the blood dried and caked around his knuckles. He hadn't even noticed the pain until now, but looking at them, he realized just how hard he had hit Dolohov. "I'll be fine," he muttered, brushing it off. "I've dealt with worse."

Hermione frowned, her eyes softening slightly. "You should clean them up. You... you didn't have to do that, you know."

Draco's jaw tightened. "Yes, I did."

The finality in his voice made it clear that he wasn't going to discuss it further. He had done what he had to do, and he didn't regret it. He would have beaten Dolohov to a pulp if it meant keeping Hermione safe.

Hermione lowered her gaze, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her blanket. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "For everything."

Draco nodded, standing up slowly. "You should get some rest," he said, his tone softening as he took a step toward the door. "I'll check on you tomorrow."

Hermione looked up at him, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Goodnight, Draco."

He paused at the door, glancing back at her. "Goodnight, Hermione."

As Draco made his way back to his room, the exhaustion of the evening finally caught up with him. His hands throbbed with every step, and the weight of everything—his responsibilities, the danger Hermione had been in, the strange feeling that had led him to her—pressed down on him like a heavy cloak.

He stepped into his bathroom, the bright lights harsh against the darkness that clung to his thoughts. His reflection in the mirror looked haggard, the bruises on his knuckles standing out against his pale skin. He turned on the tap, letting the cool water run over his hands, washing away the blood and grime.

But no matter how hard he scrubbed, the memory of Dolohov's sneer, of Hermione's fear, wouldn't leave him. He clenched his jaw, reaching for a towel as he dried his hands, his mind still racing.

There was something between him and Hermione—something that went beyond their shared trauma, beyond the strange pull he had felt. He didn't know what it was, but it concerned him. They had both felt it, and that meant it couldn't be ignored.

Draco stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over his body, washing away the remnants of the evening. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind, but the questions lingered. Why had he felt that pull? And why did it feel like something more than just instinct?

As the steam filled the room, Draco stood under the spray, his muscles aching, his hands stinging, and his mind full of unanswered questions. Whatever this connection was, it couldn't be ignored forever. He just wasn't sure he was ready to face what it might mean.