Boys Talk

Title: Boys Talk
Author:quite_grey
Rating: PG
Pairing(s)/Character(s): H/Hr
Length: One-shot (2326 words)
Genre: Romance, mostly.
Warnings: None that I can think of.
Summary: Harry gets a peek at another side of Hermione, and neither of them are pleased about it.
Notes: I'm an American writer, so please feel free to let me know if I've slipped in any glaring Americanisms or the like. Thanks to shellydkitty for looking this over, and to Mamacita for the beta.
Website: http://community.livejournal.com/greykitty_fic/2485.html
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Boys Talk

Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Hermione looked up from trying to loosen a large burr that had gotten stuck to Crookshanks's side.

“What's up?” she asked, furrowing her brow. “You've been acting strange all day.”

Taking a deep breath, Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Crookshanks chose that moment to stage his escape from Hermione's clutches, squirming out of her grip to jump onto the back of the couch, then running along it to take a flying leap off Harry's shoulder.

“Ow!” Harry yelped as the orange blur went careening out of the living room, leaving him with a scratch across his neck.

“Crookshanks!” Hermione yelled uselessly, but the cat was already gone. “Oh, Harry, I'm sorry,” she said, scooting over on the couch to bat his hand away from his neck and examine the scratch.

“It's fine,” he said, drawing away from her probing fingers. “He just caught me off guard, is all.”

Clucking, Hermione leaned forward again, and Harry stood abruptly.

“Just leave it!”

Hermione's brow was furrowed again, but after spending the whole day brooding over it, Harry was in no mood for her concerned expression.

He blamed Ron.

“I'm not kidding, mate! She tarted herself all up, she even had on garters and this thing.” Ron had gestured at his chest with both hands, and Harry, flushing darkly, had interrupted.

“I do not want that picture in my head every time I talk to Luna, thanks.”

Picking up his almost-empty glass of firewhiskey, Ron shook his head sadly. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Harry.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Harry glared at Ron, clutching his own glass of firewhiskey in a tight fist.

“I don't think I've ever heard you talk about sex since the first time you did it, and it was just like the first time you kissed Cho.” He did a poor imitation of Harry, his eyes wide with confusion. “'Is it supposed to be so...wet?'”

“Ginny was crying the whole time!” Harry exclaimed indignantly. “I had snot on my shoulder when we were done!”

With a disgusted look, Ron held up a hand. “Please, I do not want to hear about you and my sister shagging.”

Harry sat back heavily in his chair, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You just said I don't talk about shagging enough!”

“You don't,” Ron replied staunchly, and Harry snorted.

“Whatever. You're pissed.”

“I'm not that bloody pissed.”

“You've had—”

“The point I'm trying to make here,” Ron said loudly, sounding eerily like Hermione for a moment, “is that you're too...what was the word Hermione used...repressed. Yeah, you're repressed, mate.”

“Hermione called me repressed?” Harry's jaw dropped.

“No, not you.” Ron finished off his whiskey and picked up the bottle to pour himself another. “Me, back when we were dating. But it's the same thing. You don't ever talk about shagging, and it's just not on. You're repressed.”

“You didn't talk about it, either?”

“No, not—are you even listening to me? You're repressed, okay? I was repressed because I didn't want to let Hermione tie me up, and you're repressed because you won't talk about shagging.”

Harry wondered if maybe he was a little drunker than he'd thought, because the room actually spun for a moment.

“Hermione wanted to tie you up?”

“What?” Ron glanced nervously down at his drink, then pushed it off to the side. “Maybe I am a bit pissed.”

Harry shook his head, trying to clear out all manner of dust and cobwebs. “Are you serious?”

“I wasn't really keeping track of what I drank—”

“Not that! About Hermione. Did she really want to, you know, tie you up?”

Ron eyed Harry like a cornered animal. “Listen, the past is in the past.”

“What else did she want to do?” Harry demanded, grabbing the bottle of firewhiskey and filling his glass almost to the brim before taking a large gulp.

“Harry, this seems like a bad idea....”

“Then you need to drink more.” Harry set down the bottle of firewhiskey and leaned across the table to push Ron's glass back in front of him. “Tell me what else she liked to do.”

And now Harry was in his living room, standing stupidly next to his couch while Hermione looked up at him with that concerned expression, and there was absolutely nothing on her face that even hinted at the fact that Hermione liked all sorts of...things. Kinky things.

“You can't just leave cat scratches, Harry, they can very easily get infected.” Hermione stood, craning her neck to get a peek at the scratch again, and he sighed loudly when she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the bathroom.

“Hermione,” he ground out, annoyed, even as he allowed himself to be tugged along; there was no use trying to fight her when there were possible infections involved.

“Crookshanks digs into all sorts of nasty things with those claws,” she responded matter-of-factly as they jammed into the smallish bathroom just down the hall. “Do you really want residue—”

“Fine!” Harry broke in loudly as Hermione closed the toilet lid and gestured for him to sit. “Please don't talk about residues in my neck.” He plopped down to sit on the toilet, crossing his arms petulantly.

Hermione gave him a look that he ignored, slouching down against the cool porcelain back of the toilet, and she sighed as she turned to the sink.

“Let's see...I know I have a healing salve for cuts and scratches in here....”

“Can't you just do a spell?” Harry interrupted.

“No, a potion will work much better in this instance.” She didn't bother turning round, just kept rooting through the medicine chest, clanking bottles together noisily. A whole lot of fuss over nothing, Harry thought.

“You see, although the scratch isn't deep—”

Harry interrupted her again.

“Why did you want to do kinky things with Ron and not with me?”

The bottles stopped clanking, and the tinny silence in the bathroom felt rather sinister as Hermione slowly turned to face him.

“Excuse me?”

Harry swallowed, hard; he hadn't meant to say that. Hermione was suddenly quite imposing in the small bathroom with her bushy hair puffed out around her face, and she somehow managed to fill the space not taken up by the two of them with sheer bossiness. Harry felt stupid sitting on the toilet, like some little boy she was potty-training, so he stood, rising up to his full height to look down at her.

“In bed,” he clarified, because even though he hadn't meant to bring it up like this, here it was.

“I gathered that much.” Hermione's brown eyes were simmering with what Harry immediately recognised as dangerous, but if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to stand his ground in the face of danger. He'd defeated Voldemort, after all.

“So you and Ron have been talking about me?” Hermione's tone reminded Harry a bit of Parseltongue, even though Parseltongue and English didn't sound remotely alike.

“Er, yeah...” he began, and her eyes narrowed.

“About what you've both done with me sexually, I take it?”

“Well, yes, but just—”

He didn't get a chance to finish; Hermione slapped him square in the face and stomped out of the bathroom.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered, rubbing his cheek as he rushed to follow her.

“Hermione!” he called, catching up with her by the fireplace in the living room. She ignored him and grabbed a handful of Floo powder, throwing it into the fireplace where it erupted in green flames.

“Hermione!” Harry grabbed her arm as she stepped onto the hearth, and she turned, shooting him a death glare. “What are you doing?”

“Going to Ron's flat,” Hermione replied, shaking him off. “He's got the same thing coming to him that you just got.”

“Don't you think you're overreacting?” Harry asked; he'd learned the hard way that Hermione's wrath was best fought with a rational argument, but she wasn't having it this time.

“No, I don't,” she said shortly, her jaw set. “I cannot believe that you two think you can talk about me like that, like I'm some sort of—of—communal piece of meat!”

“It wasn't like that at all,” Harry protested, “really! We were drunk!”

“Oh, well that makes it all all right, then, doesn't it?” Hermione snapped, her eyes flashing. “Maybe I'll go get pissed with Luna, and we can compare your penis sizes, or which of you is better at oral sex!”

“But I never did anything with Luna—” He broke off. “I'm definitely better at oral sex than Ron is.”

“Harry!” Hermione planted her hands on her hips. “That is completely beside the point.”

“I am, though, right?” Harry persisted, and she rolled her eyes.

“I am not going to have this conversation with you. One of the main reasons that you and Ron and I are able to remain such close friends despite past...intimacies...is that we do not discuss this sort of thing.” She shook her head. “I certainly didn't expect to have to worry about you bringing it up.”

“I didn't bring it up.” Harry scrubbed his palm against his forehead, frustrated. “Listen, Ron and I were having a few drinks, and he was talking about—doing stuff with Luna, and I asked him to stop because I really do not want to think about Luna all tarted up and he called me repressed and it all just sort of came out.”

He paused, hoping without any real hope that Hermione might just drop it, but she just huffed impatiently, gesturing with one hand for him to go on. “Well? Out with it!”

“All right.” Harry took a deep breath. “Ron called me repressed because I don't like to talk about sex, and he said you had called him repressed and that's how he knew I was.” Harry shoved his hands into the pocket of his jeans. “Then he said you called him repressed because he didn't want you tying him up, and—you never asked to tie me up, Hermione.”

“It wouldn't be an issue if you and Ron hadn't decided to have your drunken pillow talk,” she shot back evenly.

“I shouldn't have to find out that you're some—some kinky vixen from Ron!”

“No,” Hermione agreed tightly. “You should find out from me.”

“How?” Harry scoffed and fisted his hands in the safety of his pockets. “I'm not a Legilimens, you know.”

“When I'm ready to tell you something, then I will.” Hermione across the living room to the entryway, sliding her shoes on. “I shouldn't have to worry about my two best friends comparing notes on me.”

Harry followed, unreasonably angry that he had to talk to the back of her head. “Maybe if you actually told me things, I wouldn't have to go asking Ron!”

Whipping around like a woman possessed, Hermione repeated hoarsely, “Maybe if I actually told you things?”

Maybe he had gone a bit too far, there.

“I didn't mean—”

“We've been together, what, three months now, Harry?” Hermione took a step toward him, her shoulders a rigid, forbidding line. “Excuse me if I didn't want to beg to tie you up first thing, excuse me if I didn't want you going mental the way Ron—”

“I am not Ron,” Harry interrupted tersely, and immediately regretted it when Hermione began dissecting him with her eyes. He could practically see the cogs turning in her head, trying to figure him out.

“No,” she finally said, tilting her head to the side. “No, you're not.”

“I'm also not some ancient rune for you to translate, so quit looking at me like that,” Harry said stiffly.

“Harry—” Hermione's shoulders relaxed as she reached for him, smoothing her thumb over his cheek. “Don't be like that.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again, turning his face away.

He wished he'd never agreed to have drinks with Ron that night.

“What is it?” Hermione asked, a quiet urgency in her voice as she ducked to the side, trying to get him to meet her eyes. Harry looked down, off to the other side, anywhere but at her until he felt her cheek against his as she slipped her arms around him, pressing her palms into his back.

“What is it?” she asked again, and he couldn't see her face, and she couldn't see his. He found his voice.

“It's just...hard, sometimes.” He couldn't help but say it, now that he'd started. “Knowing that he had you first.”

“Oh, Harry.” She drew back, eyes shining as she looked at him, and Harry shook his head.

“Don't—I didn't mean—” He took a much needed breath, pulling his hands from his pockets to run them both through her coarse hair. “It's not something I'm thrilled about, but like you said—even Ron said it, when we first started talking about—” He rubbed small circles against her temples with his thumbs, his fingers still buried in her hair, and somehow everything seemed much easier to handle. “The past is in the past.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Yes, it is, but maybe the three of us should all talk about—”

With a very, very small smile, Harry disentangled his hands from her hair, pushing it back over her shoulders. “We don't have to do that.”

“Harry—”

He gathered her bushy hair in one hand at the nape of her neck. “Really, Hermione, it's fine.”

Shaking her head slightly, she gave him a confused look. “No, it's not. I didn't realise that what happened between Ron and me affected you so much, and I think—”

“You know what?” He trailed his fingertips down the curve of her bare neck; she shivered despite the concern on her face, and he knew he was right. “It doesn't matter. He had you then, but I have you now.”

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