Boy Talk

Neville awoke with a start, his eyelids flying open so that he stared wildly into the darkness. His heart pounded so fiercely he could swear it was causing his bedcovers to tremble where they lay bunched across his chest. He was drenched with sweat, and every muscle in his body burned as though he'd just run a marathon. As his heavy breathing began to slow and return to normal, he struggled to take reassurance in his surroundings. If the deep moan of "Oh baby, wanna see what my wand can do?" coming from the direction of Seamus' bed was any indication, he still lay in his four-poster bed in the Gryffindor sixth-year boys' dormitory. Not that he necessarily found that reassuring.

It hadn't been a good day for Neville, even by his low standards. He'd had an especially unpleasant detention with Professor Snape earlier that night that had kept him up well after midnight, and he'd barely managed to avoid being collared by Filch as he'd trudged his way back through the darkened corridors to Gryffindor Tower. Then he'd had to shout to rouse the Fat Lady from a deep sleep so she could admit him. Then, when he'd entered the common room, he'd interrupted Ron and Hermione in a rather private moment.

His face had been painfully hot as he'd stammered out an apology, trying not to notice that Hermione had missed a button in the scramble to cover herself, or that Ron had a large purple mark on the side of his neck. Then he'd fled upstairs, grateful to find Harry, Seamus and Dean sound asleep, and sought sanctuary behind the relative safety of his closed curtains. He'd lain awake long enough to hear Ron enter and ready himself for bed, but by the time Ron had returned from brushing his teeth Neville was asleep.

That's when the dreams began their assault, overwhelming his senses with images so rapid and intense his poor brain couldn't process them all fast enough. He'd been plagued with nightmares most of his life, to the point that he worried if he went more than a week without one. These dreams weren't nightmares, however. His nightmares didn't involve girls he knew and admired in various states of undress, doing things he knew they'd be horrified to learn he fantasized them doing. His nightmares didn't involve moaning and rubbing and kissing and more moaning and...oh, Merlin, not that either. And they most certainly didn't leave his pajama bottoms and bedcovers sticky and his groin pulsing with involuntary release.

He lifted the sheets to look down at his now-flaccid member. He wanted to cry. These episodes seemed to be coming more and more frequently, and the dreams that heralded them were growing more and more intense. Tonight's had been especially vivid. If Ron knew that he imagined himself doing that...and that...with his sister...and his girlfriend...at the same time!...he'd.... He shuddered violently, not wanting to contemplate what Ron might do if he discovered what a disgusting, filthy pervert Neville really was.

He slipped silently out of bed. When Harry cried out in his sleep he froze, terrified by the thought of discovery, but soon Harry rolled over and returned to whatever hell his mind conjured up for him each night. Moving carefully so as not to disturb anyone, Neville peeled off his pajama bottoms, now drying and crusty from the night's exertions, put on a fresh pair, then removed his sheets and shoved everything down the laundry chute. The house elves would make up his bed with fresh sheets in the morning, but until then he'd have to settle for his duvet and try to avoid the damp spot on his mattress.

He wrapped the duvet around himself and curled up into a tight ball as close to the edge as he could get. He felt miserable. He could barely look at Hermione, or Ginny, or Luna, or Eloise, or Susan, or just about any girl he had more than a passing acquaintance with, without feeling that painful tightening in his groin and running from the room to hide the evidence of his involuntary reaction to them. What would his roommates say if they knew there was a sex fiend in their very midst? What would the girls say if they knew what he pictured them doing almost every night? What would they say if they knew he pictured them completely starkers? He was unpopular enough as it was; if word of his...problem got out, he'd have to leave school. His gut clenched at the thought of what Malfoy would say if he found out. Or his gran, for that matter.

He desperately needed to talk to someone. He needed help, and soon, before things spiraled completely out of control. He could go to Madame Pomfrey, he reckoned, if he hadn't had dreams about her as well. Professor Sprout was out for the same reason. He hadn't sunk so low as to fantasize about Professor McGonagall yet, thank Merlin, but he'd sooner seek Auntie Enid's advice than go to her.

No, he needed to talk to another bloke. But his choices there weren't much better. Professor Dumbledore? Well, if he couldn't discuss it with Great-Uncle Algie, he certainly couldn't discuss it with Dumbledore. Hagrid? Maybe, but he feared it might embarrass Hagrid even more than it would him. Professor Sn...don't even go there, he chastised himself.

That left him with his fellow students. He didn't dare speak to anyone outside of Gryffindor; there was no telling where their loyalties might lie. But who in Gryffindor could he turn to? Ron was definitely out of the question. He'd have Neville in the hospital wing before he'd even finished. He didn't feel comfortable going to Seamus or Dean either. He liked them both, and envied their affability with girls, but that just brought him back around to the very nature of his problem. He got along well with the Creevey brothers too, but they were Muggle-born, and he didn't know if Muggles had this sort of problem. None of the other Gryffindor boys he knew well enough to approach. Which left him with only one person.

Harry.

~~~~~<<<<< >>>>>~~~~~

Finding Harry alone hadn't been easy. Ever since Voldemort's return had become public knowledge he'd grown quite popular, and could rarely be found outside of class or Quidditch practice without at least three or four students clustered around him, asking questions and advice about how to protect themselves from dark magic. The few occasions when he knew Harry could escape on his own or with just Ron and Hermione for company--usually to Hagrid's cabin--Neville was reluctant to interfere. Fortune smiled upon him, however, when he returned to his dormitory after lunch one day to find Harry writing a letter.

"All right there, Harry?" he asked, dropping his satchel on the floor by his bed.

Harry replaced the stopper in his ink bottle and looked up at him with a smile. "All right, Neville. You?"

"All right, I reckon." He sat on the window-box and looked outside. He didn't know how long Harry planned on sticking around, or when he'd get another opportunity to talk to him. He needed to act fast, but the right words just wouldn't come.

"You've been rather quiet lately," Harry said right behind him, making him jump. He hadn't heard Harry get up. "Something on your mind?"

He turned toward Harry with a sigh. "Er...er...yeah, kind of."

Harry leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. "Snape giving you a hard time again?"

Neville shrugged. "No more than usual."

"Yeah, the great greasy git's been slacking off of me, too." Harry laughed bitterly. "Probably saving up energy for right before the end of term." Neville had to laugh in agreement. "So," Harry went on, "does this have something to do with the D.A.?"

"Oh, no --"

"'Cause if it does, you know you can come to me for help, right?"

He couldn't help being touched by the evident concern on Harry's face, and hastened to reassure him. "No, not at all, everything's just fine with the D.A. You're a great teacher."

"Hm," Harry grunted. Then his face grew dark. "Is it Malfoy?"

Neville shook his head. "Malfoy seems to leave me alone unless Snape's on a tear."

"Those two are thick as thieves sometimes, aren't they?" He peered at Neville. "So what is it, then? What's bothering you?"

He took a deep breath, knowing that it was now or never, that if he couldn't find the courage now, he never would. "It's just...well, y'see --" He cleared his throat. "I've been having these, er, dreams."

An eyebrow lifted. "Dreams?"

"Yeah. Er, naughty dreams. S-Sex dreams." His face felt so hot he thought it might burst into flames at any second.

"Oh," Harry said. Then his eyes grew wide. "Oh!" He backed away from the window and lowered himself on to his bed. "You mean like with girls and stuff?" Neville nodded. "Oh," Harry said again. "And, er, when you wake up...have you--?"

Tears of shame prickled at his eyes. He was afraid to look anywhere else but at his shoes, even though he knew Harry'd never mock him to his face.

"Me too."

His head shot up so fast he put a crick in his neck. "Y-You do?"

Harry's face was beet red, but his gaze never wavered. "Yeah. At least once a week."

Neville's shoulders drooped. "Oh," he said. "I-It happens to m-me almost e-every night."

Harry whistled. "Wow," he said. "No wonder you're always falling asleep in Charms."

"What's wrong with me?" he moaned, burying his face in his hands.

He heard the creak of floorboards, then felt a weight settle down on the window-box next to him. Ashamed of his depravity and his tears, he turned away. "Neville," Harry said softly. He shook his head and snuffled. "Neville, there's nothing wrong with you. Those dreams...all of that...we all get it."

Neville stared at him in shock and disbelief. "Really?"

Grinning sheepishly, Harry nodded. "Yeah."

"Even Ron?"

"Especially Ron." He snorted. "If Hermione had any idea what Ron fantasizes about doing with her, she'd...well, it'd be a right ugly mess."

"I don't believe you," he said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"I don't blame you, mate," Harry said with a chuckle. "First few times it happened to me, I thought I was turning into some sort of perv. I couldn't even be in the same room as Ginny 'cause I was sure she'd see it in my face and hex me from here to London and back."

Neville felt his eyes grow wide. "Ginny?"

Harry pursed his lips and blew out a breath. "Ginny, Hermione, Katie Bell, Cho, Hannah, Luna, both Patils at the same time...you name 'em, I've had dreams about 'em." He leaned close and whispered, "I even dreamed about Mrs. Weasley once!"

"M-Madame Pomfrey," Neville mumbled.

"Yeah," Harry said, nodding his head vigorously. "Her too." He nudged Neville with his elbow. "Professor Trelawney?"

He shook his head. "Professor Sprout."

"You got it bad, mate," Harry said with another chuckle, patting him on the shoulder. "But don't let it get to you." He sighed. "I tell you, my Luna dreams are the worst."

"Luna? Really?"

"Really. Have you ever noticed how perfectly symmetrical her lips are?" Neville had to shake his head. A wistful, far-off expression flickered across Harry's face. "Every time I dream about her, I can't look her in the eye for days. The other night, I had this one dream where she --" He leaned over and whispered something quite profane he'd done with Luna in his subconscious.

Neville's jaw dropped. "I had the exact same dream about Ginny last week!" he exclaimed.

Harry grinned. "It's all that red hair, isn't it?" Neville nodded. "I'm a complete nutter whenever she wears her hair down. All I can do is stare at it and wonder if, y'know --" He waggled his eyebrows.

Neville stared at him in confusion. "No, I don't," he said truthfully.

"Oh, y'know what I mean," he said. "If she's, y'know...red down there, too."

He felt all the blood drain out of his face and head south. "Oh, Merlin," he moaned.

"Bloody right," Harry said. Neville was enormously grateful Harry was looking off in another direction. He hurriedly bunched his robes across his lap. "There's just something about girls' hair that makes me absolutely mental. I swear, if I hear Ron make one more comment about Hermione's 'bushy brown hair', I'll go spare."

Neville leaned his head back against the window-pane and squeezed his eyes shut. "Harry," he groaned.

"Huh?"

"Shut up." He turned crimson when he saw Harry glance down.

At least Harry had the decency to blush as well. "Sorry, mate. Didn't mean to put ideas in your, er, head." He chewed on his thumb while Neville thought about boggarts, Shrinking Solutions, Blast-Ended Skrewts, dried frog intestines, his gran, and anything else that might take his mind off the raging inferno in his nether regions. After a few minutes, Harry turned back to him. "Have you, er, ever tried, er, polishing your wand?"

Neville sat up and gave him the most confused expression he could muster. What did this have to do with his wand? "Polishing my wand?" he asked. "What d'you mean?"

"Y'know," Harry said. He enunciated each word carefully while making a rather obscene gesture with his hand. "Polish...your...wand."

Neville's hand flew up to his mouth. "Oh!" he squeaked. "I-I ha-haven't...."

"You've NEVER--?" Harry's eyes were as big as dinner plates. "Bloody hell, no wonder you're such a mess!"

"M-My gran...sh-she said...."

Harry clucked his tongue. "Did your gran catch you touching yourself and punish you for it?" Neville nodded glumly and Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Aunt Petunia caught me once. Wouldn't let me take a bath by myself for a month. Meanwhile, every night her precious ickle Duddikins is wanking into some lacy knickers he nicked from a lingerie shop." He shuddered.

"Listen, mate," he continued. "Wanking is perfectly normal for blokes our age. Without it, we'd probably implode from frustration. I know I would." He took a deep breath. "Do it as much as you need to. It'll help with the night stuff. Your, er, wand won't fall off, you won't grow hair on your palms, and you won't go blind. Just make sure no one's around to hear you when you do it. Unless," he said with a lascivious grin, "you're with someone who's keen on that sort of thing."

"HARRY!" He could feel his blush all the way down to his toes. Harry just laughed, a genuine laugh that Neville rarely heard from him, and he felt suddenly, oddly, at ease with himself for the first time in weeks. If Harry could laugh and joke about this sort of thing, then it must be all right, he reasoned. Maybe he wasn't abnormal. "Can I ask you something?"

"S'long as it isn't personal," Harry said with a wink.

"How d'you reckon you're not a-a --"

"A sex fiend?"

Neville blushed again. "Yeah."

"George told me."

"George? George Weasley? Why not Ron?"

Harry gave him a look of incredulity. "You think I'd tell Ron what I'd been dreaming about Ginny--or Hermione? He'd bust my stones from here to Ireland!" He shrugged. "George is quite pragmatic about this sort of thing, and he won't take the mickey out of you, unlike Fred. And he's such a bloody perv himself, he was the perfect bloke to talk to."

"So he didn't mind hearing a-about Ginny?"

"Oh, well, I didn't exactly go into detail, but he seemed to understand." He shook his head and smiled. "You can bet your arse I didn't tell him about the dream I had about his mum!" He got up from the window-box and dusted off his robes. "Feel better, mate?"

Neville shrugged. "I-I guess so."

Harry patted him on the shoulder again. "Really, Neville, what you're going through is perfectly normal. Every bloke does it. George swears it'll get easier eventually, but in the meantime we've got to run around with our wands at half-mast most of the time and hope the girls don't notice what slobbering tossers we are."

"I hardly find that reassuring," Neville said.

Harry laughed. "Give it time, mate, give it time." He picked up his satchel and slung the strap over his shoulder. "I've got to get to Advanced Potions before Snape tosses my arse in a cauldron. You going to be okay?"

"Yeah," he said, watching Harry walk to the door. "Say, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks." They shared a brief, broad grin before Harry walked out.