smutgoblin

“I’ve kept my feelings hidden for so long, I forgot what it feels like to be honest.” There was no distinguishing flavor, or odor to the veritaserum, but Hermione knew as soon as the sentence rolled off her tongue it was facilitated by the potion. She would never say that, regardless of how true it might be.

“And what are you not being honest about?” Draco swished his own, veritaserum-less drink around in its glass as a wave of anger crashed over her. 

How dare he! That insufferable git had drugged her and was asking her about her damned feelings?

“I have desires that could be viewed as unprofessional at best.” She held her lips together tight, shaking her head and refusing to let any more words out. There was no way in hell Malfoy got to know any of this, not today, not ever, and definitely not like this. 

His eyebrow quirked up, intrigue sketched across his face as he leaned back in his chair. “And at worst?”

“Perverse!” Hermione chided herself as the word escaped her lips, which she’d allowed to part for only a fraction of a second. Hadn’t she read about a witch who was able to resist the effects of veritaserum in the eighteenth century? Delilah Baird? How had she managed it?

“Ah— Now you have my attention, Granger.”

***

(for list of writing prompts see last post I reblogged!)

In that moment, other relationships she’d had seemed limited. The years her and Ron had spent living separate lives next to each other. Stopping to update each other and joke around every once in a while, but he would eventually go back to the living room to watch quidditch or play the muggle video games Arthur had introduced him to, and she would go back to the library or the lab to continue her work.

She’d been lonely. All that time she’d thought she had someone to spend her life with, but she was still lonely. 

Now as she finally allowed herself to look— really look at Draco Malfoy, she was drowning, an increasingly intrigued expression playing across his usually stoic features only serving to pull her in further. His grey eyes inviting her to picture it, picture them. 

Hermione chopping vegetables as he seasoned and stirred the pot on their muggle-made gas stove.

Draco falling asleep on the chaise after a long day at the ministry, Hermione laying next to him, running her fingers through his hair.

His arm wrapped around her, keeping her warm as he led her into the Italian restaurant she used to frequent with her parents.

Draco tracing his thumb over the top of her hand while waiting for her name to be called at a doctor’s appointment.

She saw a version of herself that had multitudes more to give, and it still never felt like he was taking. It felt natural. 

Draco testing the wards outside of Hermione’s cottage before they went to sleep. Waking up with light streaming in the windows and across half of his face, his grey eyes already focused on her and reflecting the morning light, making them shine brighter than she’d ever seen him. 

By the time she pulled herself out of it his expression had changed, as if he was picturing it to, and Hermione wondered how similar the visions had been. Could he have seen the same things? Was that even possible? Through some sort of accidental legilimency, possibly. Hermione couldn’t occlude worth a damn, nor was she trying.