The Silver Envelope

Apologies

Chapter Notes

TW: emotional abuse, toxic relationships

By the time Hermione made it back to London, the sun had long since set. Cold night engulfed her when the horrible squeezing sensation of apparition finally broke away from her, and she gulped the icy air gratefully.
She'd refused to touch Draco when they got back to the courtyard to apparate out of the city.
Several passing wizards had stared at them when she'd barked at him not to touch her, but she hadn't cared. She needed space.
That evil, loathsome, treacherous, filthy, foul, horrible..
Hermione mentally listed every insult she could think of as she trudged up the walk to her flat
Once she was inside, she hurled her wand at the door, causing it to seal shut with a wet squelch She ground out several other harsh protective curses on top of it, flinging her wand around her flat until every nook and cranny of the place was practically hermetically sealed.
Then she let out a huge scream of frustration.
Crookshanks, who had come out to greet her, slunk away with his tail tucked.
Collapsing onto her sofa, Hermione took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down.
Yes, she was angry with him. But worse, she was worked up, so full of sexual energy that she thought steam might come spurting out of her.
How dare he.
How dare he!
She had made herself blindingly clear: just friends. But with nothing more than a temporary sticking charm and a few whispered words, he'd undone her resolve so spectacularly, she thought she might have melted into the floor from embarrassment and lust.
She hated him. Loathed him. Hated most that he was right.
They couldn't possibly be friends now. Not now that she knew what it was like when he whispered in her ear, when he spoke of taking her against a bookshelf...she couldn't see him. Not ever again.
And when she thought of what he must be thinking right now, of his stupid, self-satisfied smirk at the moment when he had told her that she could let go of the bookshelf, and she'd realized that she hadn't been stuck for some time, but rather clutching the shelf and silently begging for his
touch
She groaned, tucking herself tightly into the sofa, squashing her face into a pillow. She would never recover from the mortification of it all. He was probably laughing at her right now, dreaming up some new way to torture her the next time they saw each other, now that he knew how easy it was. Of course, to him, it was all just a big joke. A laugh constructed to tease her for his enjoyment. Nothing more.
Hermione blamed herself. If she hadn't lost control and kissed him that day in the lift, none of this would have happened. She had handled this all wrong.
And the worst part was, she was still keyed up and soaking wet at the memory of him.
Ugh. She would have to thoroughly take care of herself tonight.
Perhaps she would Obliviate him. Then things could go back to the way they were...except that she would still remember. How could she ever forget how easily he'd brought her to the brink of desperation today? It was no use.
Hermione slogged off to take a hypothermia-inducing shower and go to bed. She would think of
something tomorrow.

Hermione spent the rest of the weekend sealed in her apartment, attempting to work but instead suffering the worst bout of inattention she'd ever had.
He haunted her every waking thought. Even a few of her dreams, from which Hermione had woken shaking and panting, desperate for the touch of a man who was content to toy with her.
Shamefully, she'd had to make do with her own fingers and the memory of the dark, whispered words that were still echoing through her head. Several times.
She nearly broke down and went to him more than once. But the memory of his sneer, his callous attitude as he'd brushed her off, hardened her resolve. Instead, she combed through her personal library, searching for an enchantment, a potion-something that would dim her lust for him.
Finally, on Sunday night, she settled on making a simple calming draught. It would both stop her from getting too excited and help her navigate stressful times, and Hermione thought that sounded perfect. It took an hour to brew, and the sight of her old pewter cauldron in the tiny fireplace of her flat was strangely soothing. It made her feel like she was really doing something to take back control of her life.
Harry called, and Hermione jumped at the sound of the ringing phone. She'd been lost in her traitorous thoughts again. Breathless, she rushed to the phone, answering with an exhausted,
"Hello?"
But it was not Harry's voice that met her ears. Instead, a dark, melodious voice crackled through the speaker, lighting her nerves on fire.
"Granger," Draco said, amusement clear in his tone. "I wasn't sure you'd answer my call."
She had completely forgotten that Draco had her phone number now. For a beat, she did consider hanging up on him. Instead, she swallowed hard and made her voice cold before responding.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" she said acidly, though regressing back to his surname as an insult had less of an effect when he used hers as a taunt.
His low laugh made something in her core tremble.
"No need to be so antagonistic, Granger. I was just calling to let you know that I spoke with the Daily Prophet again. The retraction will go out tomorrow morning instead of today. Apparently there was a slight hitch in the printing order, but it's all resolved now."
Hermione blinked, realizing she had completely forgotten about Johanna's article.
"Oh," she said lamely. "Good."
"And one more thing," Draco said. Hermione waited for him to continue with bated breath. "I wanted to apologize. about the other day. I only I didn't mean to cross a line."
Nervous flutters plagued her stomach at his words. She had no idea how to respond to that.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. Earnestly, even.
She wanted to scream "No! I am not bloody alright!" at him, but held her tongue. Instead, she moved the receiver away from her face and huffed out an angry breath, collecting herself.
Should she lie and say she was fine? Somehow, that didn't seem to be a good idea either.
"Not really," she admitted to him through gritted teeth.
Silence stretched on the other line, and for a moment she considered asking if he was still there.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice resonant with emotion, even through the muddled phone line.
"Truly. I won't behave like that again."
Something caught in her chest, burning and gnawing at her.
She should be satisfied that he was apologizing. Instead, she felt a strange bitterness rising in her.
The question on her lips was dangerous, but she couldn't hold it back.
"Are you sorry because you didn't mean it, or sorry because I'm angry with you?" she asked.
Her heart hammered as his silence stretched on and on, marking the seconds alongside the crackling of fire in her sitting room. Finally, his voice came through the line.