what we talk about when we talk about love
This is for madmadharri, who asked for something with Hermione’s pink hoodie, because she made me a gigabillion beautiful icons, and because she’s going away for the summer so I won’t be able to follow through on my evil plan of installing her in a little prison with a computer and snacks, in order to force her to make me icons forever and ever. I wrote it between midnight and two last night, and was reminded that writing things that don't take forever is actually fun. Go figure. Um, she asked for something with Hermione’s pink hoodie, and maybe Harry and Ron and Draco, so I hope this fits the bill. Excuse the Raymond Carver-esque title.
things she hadn’t ever known to ask for
The first time she kissed Harry, she twisted her hands in his shirt and shoved him back against a wall. He was taller than her, and stronger, but he let her anyway, their mouths bumping awkwardly together. Harry looked like he might cry, and his hands were unsteady on her shoulders, and later, when Ron found out, he shouted at her, twisted one hand in her faded pink sweatshirt and said,
"You stay the fuck away from him," his voice low and rough.
She punched him in the face, fist loose, power from the shoulder, just like he’d taught her, a month before they left school, a year before Hermione had killed enough people that she’d stopped counting.
Ron, she knew, had never stopped counting.
He grunted, but didn’t let her go, fingers tightening on her arm, the sweatshirt parting at the shoulder seam; she had stretched it with magic at fifteen, and again, a year later. She had always expected to outgrow it, but had stayed, stubbornly, the same size ever since.
"I’ll do," she said, "whatever I want."
"Do it with someone else," Ron said. "Harry can’t - I won’t let you ask it of him."
"There’s no one else," she said.
"You didn’t even like it," he said.
"Yes I did," she said. It had been awful, Harry’s mouth oddly sour, his teeth scraping her lip, and she - she’d fucked Victor Krum, and sucked his cock, all in the spirit of happy investigation, and because she’d liked him, more than she had ever liked anyone but Ron and Harry, but pressing her mouth against Harry’s had made her stomach lurch sickly, and he’d pulled her hair by accident and apologized.
"Hermione," Ron said quietly. He’d been so stupid about her for so long that she always, always forgot that he’d stopped being stupid.
"Everyone expects - " she had said, after the last Yule ball.
"I won’t fuck you just because everyone expects it," he had said, mouth twisted bitterly, and she had known then that he could see inside her, a little, that he knew how to give her things she hadn’t ever known to ask for.
His cheek was purpling a little, and there was a long smear of half-dried mud along his left side.
"You were out all night," she said.
"They’re getting close," he said. They started to walk back up the rutted road towards the abandoned village where they had set up a temporary camp. "When did you last sleep?"
"Two days, I think," she said, after a moment.
*
They ate, quickly, eggs and toast Ron made in a heavy iron skillet, and then Ron took a shower while she spread out her notes on the table, again. Pansy and Neville would return tomorrow, and then Lupin and perhaps Draco, and they would ask her if she had managed, how much longer, they would expect -
"You should sleep," Ron said, toweling his hair in the doorway, wearing only a pair of thin cotton undershorts.
"I can’t," she said, pressing down the last of the thin sheets, noticing that her handwriting was illegible on more than one piece.
"C’mere," Ron said, and turned into the bedroom before she moved, dropped the towel over a chair, left her watching the long narrow curve of his back.
He had saved her life more than once, and she had hauled him up out of mud and run with his arm heavy across her shoulders, his shocked breath in her ear, but they hadn’t kissed since she was seventeen, when she could never think of anything but babies and forever, and how fat Mrs. Weasley had gotten, and she looked up increasingly complicated contraceptive spells and told herself that the tortured pressure in her chest whenever Ron put his hand under her shirt was probably happiness.
He pressed her back against the bed, stretched her arms out on either side, palms up, and waited to kiss her until her mouth fell open, her heartbeat strange and unsteady in her ears. His mouth was soft and rough and wet, but he’d barely peeled the sweatshirt down her shoulders before Harry came in. Hermione opened her eyes at the tread in the doorway, tried to move, but Ron had her pinned with the sweatshirt, his fingers curled at her elbows.
"It’s not - " she said.
"It’s what you think," Ron said, without lifting his head, his lips brushing against her throat.
It shouldn’t have been different, Harry, shirt off, pants unbuttoned, letting her push him back and kiss him, letting her shove his pants down off his hips. He pulled her hair again and it sent a trembling spark down her spine, and Ron hauled him back against his chest, kissed his shoulder once, and then again, his hand across Harry’s heart.
"Take your clothes off," he said. A wind had blown up, and they had left the shutters open. Through the open door, she could see her notes swirling, slipping down off the table, drifting across the threshold.
"Your papers," Harry whispered, watching her greedily as she fumbled with her trouser buttons, Ron’s thumb sliding across the hollow in his hip, keeping him steady.
"I don’t care," she said. "s’useless. I’ll start again tomorrow."
Ron put his hand on her cheek when she slid up against Harry and kissed him, pushed her hair behind her ear with one finger, but didn’t meet her eyes again until later, when Harry was between his knees, sucking softly, and Ron’s face was wild, unguarded. He kissed her clumsily, and ran a thumb across her nipple.
"you - "
"There’s no one else," he said. Harry had wrapped a hand around her ankle, palmed her kneecap, "not for any of us."
things she hadn’t ever known to ask for
The first time she kissed Harry, she twisted her hands in his shirt and shoved him back against a wall. He was taller than her, and stronger, but he let her anyway, their mouths bumping awkwardly together. Harry looked like he might cry, and his hands were unsteady on her shoulders, and later, when Ron found out, he shouted at her, twisted one hand in her faded pink sweatshirt and said,
"You stay the fuck away from him," his voice low and rough.
She punched him in the face, fist loose, power from the shoulder, just like he’d taught her, a month before they left school, a year before Hermione had killed enough people that she’d stopped counting.
Ron, she knew, had never stopped counting.
He grunted, but didn’t let her go, fingers tightening on her arm, the sweatshirt parting at the shoulder seam; she had stretched it with magic at fifteen, and again, a year later. She had always expected to outgrow it, but had stayed, stubbornly, the same size ever since.
"I’ll do," she said, "whatever I want."
"Do it with someone else," Ron said. "Harry can’t - I won’t let you ask it of him."
"There’s no one else," she said.
"You didn’t even like it," he said.
"Yes I did," she said. It had been awful, Harry’s mouth oddly sour, his teeth scraping her lip, and she - she’d fucked Victor Krum, and sucked his cock, all in the spirit of happy investigation, and because she’d liked him, more than she had ever liked anyone but Ron and Harry, but pressing her mouth against Harry’s had made her stomach lurch sickly, and he’d pulled her hair by accident and apologized.
"Hermione," Ron said quietly. He’d been so stupid about her for so long that she always, always forgot that he’d stopped being stupid.
"Everyone expects - " she had said, after the last Yule ball.
"I won’t fuck you just because everyone expects it," he had said, mouth twisted bitterly, and she had known then that he could see inside her, a little, that he knew how to give her things she hadn’t ever known to ask for.
His cheek was purpling a little, and there was a long smear of half-dried mud along his left side.
"You were out all night," she said.
"They’re getting close," he said. They started to walk back up the rutted road towards the abandoned village where they had set up a temporary camp. "When did you last sleep?"
"Two days, I think," she said, after a moment.
*
They ate, quickly, eggs and toast Ron made in a heavy iron skillet, and then Ron took a shower while she spread out her notes on the table, again. Pansy and Neville would return tomorrow, and then Lupin and perhaps Draco, and they would ask her if she had managed, how much longer, they would expect -
"You should sleep," Ron said, toweling his hair in the doorway, wearing only a pair of thin cotton undershorts.
"I can’t," she said, pressing down the last of the thin sheets, noticing that her handwriting was illegible on more than one piece.
"C’mere," Ron said, and turned into the bedroom before she moved, dropped the towel over a chair, left her watching the long narrow curve of his back.
He had saved her life more than once, and she had hauled him up out of mud and run with his arm heavy across her shoulders, his shocked breath in her ear, but they hadn’t kissed since she was seventeen, when she could never think of anything but babies and forever, and how fat Mrs. Weasley had gotten, and she looked up increasingly complicated contraceptive spells and told herself that the tortured pressure in her chest whenever Ron put his hand under her shirt was probably happiness.
He pressed her back against the bed, stretched her arms out on either side, palms up, and waited to kiss her until her mouth fell open, her heartbeat strange and unsteady in her ears. His mouth was soft and rough and wet, but he’d barely peeled the sweatshirt down her shoulders before Harry came in. Hermione opened her eyes at the tread in the doorway, tried to move, but Ron had her pinned with the sweatshirt, his fingers curled at her elbows.
"It’s not - " she said.
"It’s what you think," Ron said, without lifting his head, his lips brushing against her throat.
It shouldn’t have been different, Harry, shirt off, pants unbuttoned, letting her push him back and kiss him, letting her shove his pants down off his hips. He pulled her hair again and it sent a trembling spark down her spine, and Ron hauled him back against his chest, kissed his shoulder once, and then again, his hand across Harry’s heart.
"Take your clothes off," he said. A wind had blown up, and they had left the shutters open. Through the open door, she could see her notes swirling, slipping down off the table, drifting across the threshold.
"Your papers," Harry whispered, watching her greedily as she fumbled with her trouser buttons, Ron’s thumb sliding across the hollow in his hip, keeping him steady.
"I don’t care," she said. "s’useless. I’ll start again tomorrow."
Ron put his hand on her cheek when she slid up against Harry and kissed him, pushed her hair behind her ear with one finger, but didn’t meet her eyes again until later, when Harry was between his knees, sucking softly, and Ron’s face was wild, unguarded. He kissed her clumsily, and ran a thumb across her nipple.
"you - "
"There’s no one else," he said. Harry had wrapped a hand around her ankle, palmed her kneecap, "not for any of us."