Bound by Fate

Chapter 18: Threads Unraveling

Hermione lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind still racing after Draco had left. The soft click of the door echoed in her thoughts, the quiet of the room enveloping her. She should have felt relieved after the wake, after what Draco had done. But instead, her mind was tangled in knots of confusion.

Her body still ached from the tension of the evening, the terror she'd felt when Dolohov had cornered her. The memory of his cold hands on her, his vile words whispering in her ear, made her stomach turn. She had felt frozen, helpless, and if Draco hadn't arrived when he did...

She shuddered, trying to push the thought away, but it lingered, refusing to fade. And then there was Draco—his sudden, almost instinctual appearance, as if he had known. As if something had pulled him to her.

A pull, he had said. He couldn't explain it. And neither could she.

Hermione shifted beneath the covers, her mind returning to the feeling she had tried to ignore. When Dolohov had grabbed her, when the panic had surged through her, there had been a moment—brief, but undeniable—where she had felt something too. A tug, as if some invisible force had reached out, connecting her to Draco.

It didn't make sense. It couldn't. She didn't believe in mystical bonds, in forces that couldn't be explained by logic or reason. But what had happened tonight... she couldn't dismiss it. Not entirely.

She replayed the events in her mind, trying to find another explanation. Maybe Draco had simply been attuned to the atmosphere, aware that something was off during the wake. Maybe his instincts had kicked in, and he had come to check on her because he knew the dangers lurking in every corner of the manor.

But that didn't explain the feeling—the strange, almost magnetic pull she had sensed in the pit of her stomach. It was fleeting, but it had been there. And when Draco had burst into the room, it had felt like something clicked into place, as if a thread had been woven between them, linking them in ways she couldn't comprehend.

She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, frustration mounting as her thoughts swirled. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. She had barely started to heal from everything Lucius had done to her. The last thing she needed was another mystery, another layer of complication.

But the truth was undeniable: Draco had saved her tonight. He had protected her, fought for her. And that was something she couldn't ignore.

Her mind drifted back to the moment after Dolohov had left, after Draco had beaten him. The way Draco had looked at her, the way his voice had softened when he asked if she was okay—it had been so unlike him. She had seen a side of him tonight that she wasn't sure she was ready to understand.

And then there was the way he had stood up to the other pureblood families, asserting his power, claiming the Malfoy name as his own. The Draco she had known at Hogwarts had always been in his father's shadow, a cruel boy desperate to prove himself. But tonight, he had been different—stronger, more commanding. There was something about him now that was both unsettling and... comforting.

Hermione shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts that were beginning to take root. No. She couldn't let herself go down that path. Draco was still a Malfoy. He was still part of the family that had caused her so much pain. And yet...

She sighed, sinking deeper into the pillows, her fingers gripping the blanket tightly. The truth was, she didn't know what to think anymore. The lines between them had started to blur, and she wasn't sure how to make sense of it.

She had spent so long hating Draco, so long believing he was just like his father. But now, after everything, she wasn't so sure. He had killed Lucius, yes, but he had also saved her. Twice now.

Twice.

The realization sent a shiver down her spine. She had always believed in black and white, in right and wrong. But with Draco, things had become murky, difficult to categorize. He wasn't the boy she had known at Hogwarts, and the man he was becoming... well, she didn't know what to make of him.

Her gaze drifted to the door, her thoughts trailing after Draco as he had left her room. She had seen the blood on his hands, the way he had downplayed it as if it didn't matter. But it mattered to her. He had fought for her, and not just with words. He had been willing to hurt someone to protect her, and that was something she hadn't expected from him.

Hermione closed her eyes, exhaustion finally beginning to weigh her down. But even as sleep tugged at her, the questions lingered in the back of her mind.

Why had Draco felt that pull?
What did it mean?

And more importantly, why had she felt it too?

The next morning, Hermione woke to the faint sound of Krick, the house-elf, bustling quietly around her room, setting out her breakfast and the usual tray of potions. The soft clink of the teacup against the tray pulled her fully from sleep, and she sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," Krick said in his usual soft, deferential tone, bowing slightly. "I have brought your food and potions. If there is anything else Krick can do, please say."

Hermione gave him a small, tired smile. "Thank you, Krick. That will be all for now."

Krick nodded, disappearing with a quiet pop, leaving her alone once more. Hermione reached for the cup of tea, her thoughts still clouded with the events of the previous night.

She sipped the tea slowly, her gaze drifting to the window, where the morning light filtered through the heavy curtains. The house was quiet, but there was an unease in the air, a sense that things had shifted. And they had—Draco had made sure of that.

As she sat there, nursing her tea, the questions from last night began to resurface. The pull. The connection. The way Draco had found her at exactly the right moment. It wasn't something she could ignore, no matter how much she wanted to. But what it meant, she still didn't know.

The longer she thought about it, the more her heart began to race. Was there something more between them—something she didn't understand? Or was it simply a coincidence, a product of the chaos they had both endured?

Hermione sighed, setting the cup down on the tray with a quiet clink. She couldn't let herself get lost in these thoughts. There were too many things at stake, too many wounds still healing.

But as much as she tried to push it away, the pull lingered in the back of her mind, a silent reminder that something had changed.