Dealbreaker

Her fiancé came up behind her at the bathroom sink and kissed the side of her face. His large hands wandered across her stomach, causing it to roil with nausea, and then strayed further north.

“Ron.”

His mouth was on her neck, now. He was slobbering over her like a dog with a piece of meat.

“Ron!”

He stopped and sighed.

“I know, we said not until the wedding. You still set on that?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Okay, okay…”

He released her and disappeared into the bedroom. She could breathe again.

Hermione had convinced Ron to agree not to have premarital sex with the excuse that it would be against the wishes of her parents, who were devout Christians.

Actually, she had been raised by two atheists who had never even stepped foot in a church, but Ron didn’t need to know that.

She just needed to put off having sex until she could work out how to like the idea of it. It sounded terribly uncomfortable and unpleasant, but it was part of life. Everyone had to suffer through it eventually. She knew she needed to be more of a grown-up about it.

*

“What do you think?” said Hermione, drowning amidst a tower of floral catalogues. “Lilies? Roses? I know there’s a rose called Gentle Hermione, but I don’t want pink. I wanted lilacs, but they aren’t in season. Forget-me-nots are nice, but they’re not very wedding-y… To be honest, I think I’m going to go with white hydrangeas. Do you think that’d be a good choice?”

There was no response. Her maid of honour was once again nose-deep in Which Broomstick, until Hermione caught a flash of something strange.

“Ginny! What on earth are you looking at!”

Ginny snapped the catalogue shut.

“Broomsticks,” she said innocently, showing Hermione the cover. It did indeed have broomsticks on it.

“That wasn’t broomsticks, that was—”

She wrestled it from Ginny’s hands and flicked through it. It opened to lie on a moving photograph of a muscled, shirtless man sliding his hand up and down something long and hard that was definitely not a broom. Urgh.

“Wedding planning’s boring!” Ginny defended. “I have to look at something exciting or else I’ll fall asleep!”

“I know it’s boring, but really… You had that at the bridal shop! I can’t believe you were looking at something like that in public!”

“Come on, I changed the cover, no one noticed. Everyone’s got stuff like this under their bed, anyway. You must have some dirty books hidden away somewhere.”

“No, I don’t,” Hermione said truthfully.

Padma had lent her a Jilly Cooper, but she didn’t see the appeal. She wasn’t a big fan of horses.

“How do you get in the mood, then? Don’t mention my brother or I will vomit on you.”

“That’s none of your business!”

She hadn’t been going to mention Ron. She didn’t think about Ron. Whenever she got in the mood, she inevitably ended up thinking about people she shouldn’t. Pretty faces popped into her head unbidden: Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and even strangers like the blonde girl on the till in Next. 

Lately, what came to her in private moments was the memory of Pansy’s fingertips tracing along her spine. She had sometimes imagined she was the assistant instead, fitting Pansy for a wedding dress.

They’d be alone in the curtained fitting room and Hermione would watch Pansy slip off her clothes. Her bra would be black, probably, like everything else she wore. Maybe with a bit of lace, or a velvet bow like the one she wore in her hair. She would reach behind her to unhook the clasp, letting the bra tumble to the floor, and Hermione would watch that too.

Having thoughts like that made her feel guilty, so she tried not to get in the mood at all.

*

“What sort of style do you want to try on first? We’ve got everything: ball gown, A-line, mermaid, column, empire waist, strapless, halter, sweetheart neckline…”

Hermione swallowed. She had never felt less knowledgeable about a subject in her life. Pansy had led her into the back room, where charmed measuring tapes and scissors were working busily without human interference. She ducked under a table, pulled out a large green bottle and poured Hermione a glass of champagne.

“Go on,” she said encouragingly. “We’ve got crates of the stuff, we give it to everyone.”

“Thanks,” said Hermione, taking a sip and feeling bubbles burst on her tongue. “I didn’t really have a style in mind. What do you think would suit me?”

“Oh, let’s see…”

Pansy tilted her head and looked Hermione up and down, analysing her figure. Strangely, Hermione didn’t mind. It was different to a man looking at her.

When Ron looked at her body, she could see in his eyes that he was thinking about what he wanted to do to her. She felt violated by it, even if it was only happening to her in his imagination.

Pansy’s examination was brief and professional. She was a woman, too, so she knew how it felt to be looked at.

“Mermaid,” she declared. “Or ball gown. Something nipped in at the waist, because you’ve got an hourglass figure. But really, brides should choose the dress they like most. A smile will flatter you more than any particular style will.”

“Hourglass? You don’t think I’m pear-shaped?”

Pansy analysed her again, walking around her in a circle.

“No, hourglass. It’s all about ratios. I can measure you properly, if you like.”

Oh. Perhaps it was Hermione’s life that was pear-shaped.

“Can you just bring me something?”

Pansy fetched her a strapless white gown with a flowing tulle skirt and plain bodice. It took a few minutes to fit her into it as she had to fasten a row of tiny silk buttons. She must be very good with her fingers, Hermione thought idly, working with such tiny fastenings all day.

She stepped onto the podium, where three nervous-looking brides were reflected back at her in the triptych of mirrors. She turned around, pulling the heavy skirt, which didn’t seem to want to turn with her. 

Pansy was sitting in the centre of the pastel pink sofa. The rest of the shop was empty, as it was technically closed for lunch.

“You look so pretty,” she said, with an almost envious expression. Hermione felt embarrassed. 

“You don’t have to do that. The assistant thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to lie and say I look good.”

Pansy looked genuinely confused, like she had in every Herbology class they had ever shared together.

“I’m not lying. You do look pretty. What don’t you like about it?”

The dress looked pretty, Hermione supposed, turning back to the mirror, but she looked odd in it. She still couldn’t imagine walking down the aisle.

“Is it the colour?” asked Pansy. “If you don’t like white, we’ve got ivory. Or eggshell. There’s still some pearl dresses in the back from last season.”

“Um, Pansy. All the dresses in this shop look white to me.”

She grinned. “They did to me, at first. They’re like sheep.”

“Sheep?”

“You know, sheep all look the same to us, but farmers can tell them apart because they spend so much time with them. Come on, let’s get you out of that one, I’ll find you something you like better.”

Hermione tried on several more dresses, including a slinky, draped one that was pinned at the shoulders and made her look like a Greek oracle. A lot of them made her look beautiful, but none of them were exactly right. She worried that she was wasting Pansy’s time, but Pansy was having none of it.

“Some people try on a hundred dresses before they find one they like,” she insisted.

She put her in what was apparently called a mermaid dress, the skirt of which was tight around the legs before flaring outwards like a fishtail. It looked glamorous, but it was impossible to move in.

“It fits, but it’s too tight,” Hermione complained, angling to see the curve of her arse in the mirror. Admittedly, it did look good. “You can see the outline of my knickers.”

Pansy waved a hand. “You don’t wear underwear with that kind of dress.”

“None? But what if I got hit by a bus?”

“Are you travelling to your wedding in a bus?” Pansy frowned. “I think the driver would spot you if you were wearing this.”

“No, it’s something my mother used to say to me. That you should always wear clean underwear in case you’re in an accident. So that the paramedics—they’re like emergency mediwizards—don’t see anything unladylike.”

“That's… an interesting insight into Muggle culture,” said Pansy, struggling to swallow her champagne.

Hermione smiled. “You don’t have to lie.”

Pansy appeared to wrestle with herself, pressing her lips together to keep herself from speaking, but she didn’t last long.

“That’s fucked up!” she burst out. “Who cares about being ladylike if you’re dying!”

Hermione laughed. She thought Pansy would have cared. She had been so shallow at school, always straightening her fringe and fussing over her nails. Maybe she had simply been worried about what other people thought of her.

It was hard to picture Pansy Parkinson not looking ladylike, even if she had been hit by a bus. She was petite and pale, with large, dark eyes that Hermione found exceedingly cute. It meant that she looked like a consumptive heroine when she was unwell, but sharp and lively the rest of the time.

She wasn’t fussing over her appearance now. Beauty seemed to come effortlessly to her.

“Which dress would you pick, if you were getting married?” asked Hermione once she was back in the fitting room, pulling on the jeans she had come in. She expected Pansy to have an answer, but she only shrugged.

“I don’t know, a black one, probably. I always wear black. I don’t think I’d feel right in anything else.”

“Black! Not pink?” she asked, remembering the effervescent concoction Pansy had worn to the Yule ball.

Pansy scowled. Evidently, she remembered too.

“My mother bought me those robes. They were horrendous.”

“Not as bad as my wedding dress,” said Hermione, feeling the black raincloud of reality pour ice-cold water over what had been a very lovely and escapist sixty minutes. She’d rather wear pink than orange.

Pansy’s cupid’s bow twisted sympathetically, brow furrowing.

“You really can’t say no?”

“Not without upsetting people,” Hermione sighed.

“So you’ll be upset, instead?”

Hermione scraped her hair back into a tight bun, forcing the curls to behave. She was trying not to be upset. It was better that she controlled her own negative emotions, rather than having to deal with everyone else’s.

“If it was my wedding, I’d kick up a fuss,” said Pansy, with a wry smile. “But I’m not very nice.”

She was nice, Hermione thought. Much nicer than she used to be.

She had let her try on so many dresses, even though Hermione suspected it would be a lot of extra work for her to put them back on the shop floor. And she had told her she was pretty, and meant it.

“You really will look good, whatever you wear,” Pansy said in her ear as she hugged Hermione goodbye. “All the guests will be looking at your smile.”

It felt like a dream, like a fantasy. Hermione had to grip Pansy’s arms for a moment to make sure she was real.

Pansy let out a soft sound, and Hermione quickly broke away from her. Her fiancé was waiting.