Dealbreaker

The precise moment the temperature exceeded twenty degrees, the people of England collectively decided that summer had begun. Doubtless there would be grey skies and rain again tomorrow, but for today all the Weasleys and their friends had gathered in the back garden of the Burrow to make the most of the fleeting sunshine.

The adults lounged in deck chairs while the children (despite being of age, anyone younger than Mrs Weasley was classed as one of ‘the children’) hung about on the patio, chatting. Ron and Charlie had commandeered the barbecue. Hermione stood a fair distance from it, not wanting to be engulfed by the thick plume of smoke.

Fleur’s sister Gabrielle had brought her new girlfriend, Evangeline. The two young girls were huddled together by the duck pond, conversing in rapid French and ignoring everybody else.

“D’you not like her?” asked Harry, bringing Hermione a glass of fruit juice and tilting his head towards Evangeline.

“I like her,” said Hermione, surprised. “She seems nice.”

“Then why are you staring at her like you want to set her on fire?”

Hermione hadn’t realised she’d been making a face. She quickly rearranged her features, trying to make herself look pleasant instead of burning with envy.

“I’m not. It’s nothing.”

“Okay,” Harry shrugged.

“It’s just— Dating another woman must be very easy, that’s all.”

He frowned. “Do you reckon? Fleur says they get all sorts of creepy men who won’t leave them alone. Like, asking to join in, taking sneaky pictures and stuff. They can’t even hold hands in public.”

“Oh, no, that’s awful! I wasn’t talking about that sort of thing. I only meant that it’s easier physically.”

Harry didn’t seem to understand what she meant, so as usual Hermione had to explain herself, using simpler and simpler words.

“For example, it would be nicer to kiss a woman than a man, wouldn’t it?”

“Er…”

“You must think so!” she said, frustrated. “You wouldn’t want to kiss a man, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t, but…”

“I think almost everyone would date a woman if they could. Well, except gay men, of course. But women don’t really get a choice. We have to marry men and have children so that the human race doesn’t die out.”

“I hope Ginny doesn’t feel that way,” said Harry, looking at Hermione oddly.

“Hope I don’t feel what way?” asked Ginny, coming up behind them and stealing Harry’s drink. He slid an arm around her skinny waist.

“Er, I hope you’re not going to run off with a French witch.”

“Nah. Thought about it. I’m running off with Stubby Boardman instead,” she grinned.

Luna floated past barefoot and caught the tail end of the conversation.

“I kissed a witch, once,” she said, sipping a pink cocktail that appeared to have glitter in it. “She smelled very nice, but I didn’t feel anything.”

Luna sounded disappointed, but Hermione thought it sounded relaxing, to kiss someone and not feel anything. Being kissed by Ron gave her butterflies in her stomach, so much so that she often worried she was going to be sick.

She noticed Harry was watching her. He looked away.

“Did you really think about it?” he asked Ginny.

“What, dating a witch? No, ‘course not. Nothing wrong with it, if you’re born that way, but it’s not for me. A woman’s not got the equipment.”

“So you’re only with me for my equipment?” he joked.

“Hmm, I’d call it a dealbreaker. Let’s face it, the equipment is a big part of a relationship. A very big part,” she winked, nudging him in the side.

Hermione closed her eyes and pretended she was on a Greek island. And also deaf in both ears.

“Are you implying that Harry has a large penis?” asked Luna. “Because if you are, that’s rather crude.”

Ron approached carrying a platter of thick sausages. Hermione quickly excused herself and Harry watched her retreating back, concerned.

* 

“Hey, no one’s in. How about we have some time alone?” Ron suggested, rubbing a hand over her shoulder.

“I’m busy at the moment,” said Hermione, leaning away from him.

“You’re always busy.”

“Yes, well, planning a wedding takes rather a lot of time.”

She was seated at the kitchen table sorting through paperwork. Ron had said early on that he was happy not to be involved in any of the planning, as he didn’t care about the details.

“Yeah,” he said, falling heavily into a nearby chair. “I know. But it’s like you don’t want to have time alone. Like you’re finding reasons to be busy so that we can’t have time alone.”

“I still need to sort out the cake,” said Hermione. “Do you want to come to the tastings?”

“Nah, Mum’s making it.”

She looked up.

“Is she? I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“It’s fine, she knows what I like.”

But does she know what I like, Hermione wondered vexedly. Molly had already chosen the dress, the colour scheme, and now the cake: there was very little Hermione had organised herself. It was a shame, because she loved organising. It had been a major draw in the decision to get married at all.

She opened the next envelope distractedly. It was an invoice for the flowers.

“Hang on, this isn’t what I ordered,” she said, skimming the parchment and finding the words Gentle Hermione - Pink. “I chose hydrangeas, not roses.”

“Are they different?”

Hermione read the letter again and discovered the order had been signed by Molly Weasley.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” she said, wondering if she was going to break something or be sick, or both. There definitely hadn’t been a mistake; Molly had gone behind her back and changed the order.

It didn’t make sense. She had six other children, many of whom would doubtless have weddings of their own soon, so there was no need to be so controlling about hers. It was as if Molly needed to prove that she was in charge and always would be. Or perhaps she thought she was helping by trying to correct Hermione’s taste.

Why did her mother-in-law act this way? Did she not care what Hermione wanted? Did no one care?

“Ron, can you please tell your mother that I wanted hydrangeas? I paid for them, and I don’t know why the order’s been changed.”

“Can’t you tell her?”

“She’s your mother,” she said, wondering why every little thing had to be an argument.

“Alright, alright, don’t nag.”

“I’m not nagging!” she shouted, her voice coming out much shriller than she liked. “I’m asking!”

“Hey, I said I’d do it! What was it you wanted again, roses?”

Hermione screamed into her hands, hating herself. She didn’t want to be the sort of wife who nagged and complained, but she couldn’t stop herself being unhappy.

*

“I know he cares, but sometimes it feels like he doesn’t listen to me,” Hermione said miserably, safe in the comfort of her mother’s sleek BMW.

“No, men never listen,” Mrs Granger said cheerfully. “Take your father, he doesn’t listen. I tell him The Archers is on at seven o’clock, and an hour later he asks me what time it’s on. You have to remind them.”

“It was about the flowers, for the wedding. I wanted hydrangeas, but he thought I said roses.”

“Oh, flowers! Darling, you can’t expect men to care about that sort of thing.”

“But I care,” said Hermione, feeling silly. It wasn’t about the flowers; she didn’t have her heart set on hydrangeas, anyway. She had really wanted lilacs. “It feels as if what I want isn’t important.”

“Did I ever tell you about our first holiday in France?” said her mother, and then launched into an anecdote she had told ten times before. “...And I wanted the fish, but he ordered the—”

“The escargot, yes. I remember.”

“All couples fight, it’s unavoidable. Why, we had an argument just last week. He swore on his life that liquorice was pronounced with an ‘s’ sound, but I was sure it was ‘sh’, like in fish. We had to get a dictionary in the end, and it turned out—”

“Mum,” Hermione interrupted, feeling like a terrible daughter. But she had to be, at least for a moment, or she would go completely insane. “I thought we were talking about my problems.”

Her mother paused.

“Of course we are, darling. I was just saying how your father…”

The car rolled to a stop at the traffic lights. Hermione briefly considered opening the door, jumping out and running away across the four-lane roundabout. Then she remembered she could disapparate, and vanished while her mother was mid-sentence.

*

She came back from food shopping the next day to find Harry perched on the edge of the sofa with his hands clasped together, waiting for her.

“Can we talk?”

He sounded serious. It looked as if he was holding a one-man intervention.

“Yes,” she said warily, but she didn’t sit down. Harry took a deep breath.

“It’s about you and Ron.”

She waited.

“He said you don’t like kissing him,” Harry relayed awkwardly. “And when we were talking about Evangeline, you told me you’d rather kiss a woman.”

“No, I didn’t,” she said quickly. “Don’t be silly. Of course I wouldn’t. I said it would be easier. Because… because women are shorter, so you wouldn’t have to stand on tiptoe,” she said, although that wasn’t what she had meant at all.

Harry didn’t look convinced.

“I’m not a— a lesbian,” Hermione said in hushed tones, as if speaking a dirty word. She folded her arms protectively across her chest. “That’s insane. If I was, don’t you think there’d be some kind of sign?”

“I think that is the sign. Wanting to kiss women and not men.”

“I’m engaged,” Hermione told him, because he seemed to have forgotten. “To a man.”

“I know,” he said sadly.

“What are you getting at, Harry? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m getting married in a week.”

“Look, I’m only saying this because I care about you. Sometimes, at school, it was as if you and Ron didn’t even like each other.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say.

“I like him,” she said blankly. “I love him. We love each other.”

What kind of awful person would she be if she was marrying a man she didn’t like? It was normal to get fed up with each other from time to time. Her mother was right, all couples fought, it was normal. She was normal.

Harry fixed her with a hard stare. “What do you love about him?”

“I…”

Not his looks. That would have been shallow, to love someone for their looks. It wasn’t as if she had a thing for red hair.

And not… not his personality. She didn’t share his love of sport, or chess, or eating everything in sight, noisily and without table manners. But opposites attract, don’t they, she justified. Most wives didn’t love football.

Ron was kind, or at least he tried to be, and they had known each other a long time. Wasn’t that enough?

“I don’t have to defend myself to you,” she said, hearing her voice shake.

Harry raised his palms up, shaking his head. “No, you don’t. Sorry.”

“What about you and Ginny? She was too shy to talk to you for years and you barely knew she existed. What kind of start is that to a relationship?”

Harry’s expression turned stony. He stood up. “We’re not talking about my relationship, we’re talking about yours.”

Hermione took a step back.

“How dare you criticise us? You didn’t even have a wedding.”

“I’m not trying to— we didn’t want a wedding!”

“I DON’T WANT A WEDDING!” Hermione burst out.

There was a ringing silence. Harry stared at her, shocked.

She hid her face in her hands, made a rough noise of despair, and disapparated.

*

Because Hermione had been thinking of how much she was dreading walking down the aisle in Molly’s awful orange dress, she ended up reappearing outside the bridal shop. Pansy was standing on the top step with a hatbox tucked under her arm, turning a key in the lock.

“Sorry, we’re just closing… Granger?”

Her mouth fell open at the sight of the tears rolling down Hermione’s face. This was the second time Pansy had seen her fall apart.

She hastened down to steps and reached out to comfort her, but ended up juggling the hatbox, which nearly went rolling down the street.

“I’m just heading home,” said Pansy. “Do you want to come and have a cup of tea?”

Hermione nodded, gasping for breath, trying to curb her sobs. Pansy hooked an arm in hers and led her up the steep cobblestone street to the apparition point.

From this height they could see the sea on the horizon, almost the same colour as the sky. Where the two met seemed to stretch into infinity, and Hermione briefly wished she could sail off the end of the world. The last thing she saw before being Side-Alonged was a brilliant flash of blue.

Pansy lived with Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode, her friends from Slytherin. They shared a flat on the nicer side of Norwich, overlooking the River Wensum. The wide paths along the riverside were lined with leafy trees, and students from the nearby art college milled about beneath them, holding portfolios and dressed in quirky, colourful clothing. 

Millicent was doing push ups on the living room floor when they entered.

“One hundred and six,” she grunted. “One hundred and seven…”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Ignore her, she’s probably done about three.”

“She’s done five, this time,” said Daphne from the sofa. “Hello, is that Hermione Granger?”

“Hold my shins, I want to do crunches,” said Millicent, rolling onto her back.

“We’re having a cup of tea,” Pansy explained. Hermione hung back behind her so the others didn’t spot her tear-stained face.

“Hang on a minute, I need you for boy analysis. What do you think?”

Daphne held up a magazine. On the cover was a thickset man with a square jaw and an unnervingly straight hairline.

“Crabby eyes,” Pansy declared.

Daphne turned the page to a picture of an actor with greying stubble.

“Ratty. Rat-face.”

She turned another page. Pansy grimaced.

“He looks like an Italian shoe was transfigured into a person.”

“Is that a bad thing, though?” Daphne mused.

Pansy shut the door on them and dragged Hermione into the kitchen.

It was what an estate agent might have called ‘cosy’, but it had a breakfast bar, and Hermione perched on a stool while Pansy put the kettle on.

“You can eat with us, if you like,” she offered. She opened the oven and waved away a cloud of steam. “We’re having… oven chips, apparently. I thought I saw a vegetable in the flat once or twice, but it may have been a mirage.”

Hermione smiled weakly. She was grateful that Pansy waited until she had stopped crying to ask, “How are wedding preparations going?”

She closed her eyes and tried not to fall apart again.

“I’m finding it a bit stressful,” Hermione said in a small voice. She could possibly submit that statement to a magazine for the prize of ‘Understatement of the Year’.

“Everybody does,” Pansy said soothingly.

“But— but if everybody does,” Hermione argued, not finding this reassuring, “how are you supposed to know if you’re doing the right thing?”

Pansy thought about it. “I see a lot of brides, you know, and I’m not sure there is a right way to have a wedding. In the end, it doesn’t matter what flowers you pick or what food you serve, all that matters is that you love each other.”

This caused Hermione to erupt in floods of fresh tears, and Pansy hurried around the counter to embrace her, rubbing a comforting hand across her back.

Like in the fitting room, it sent tingles up her spine. Her heart fluttered in her chest. It made her feel better, which was terrible.

“I love him,” she cried wetly, “Of course I love him! We’ve been best friends since first year.”

She waited for Pansy to pass judgement, but she didn’t say anything. She just listened, rubbing smooth circles.

“But it feels like it should be easier,” Hermione sobbed, unable to stop the tears. “Everyone expects us to get married, so I have to. And it’s my fault, I said yes when he proposed, so I can’t back out now, I can’t change my mind. I’ve got to marry him. What else can I do? No one else is going to love me!”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Pansy said seriously. “And I think everyone has the right to change their mind.”

Hermione shook her head rapidly. “Not me.”

“Yes, you. I think so. That’s my opinion.”

Hermione didn’t agree with her, but she didn’t argue. Somebody’s wand chimed and Pansy fetched the food out of the oven. She poured her a bowl of piping hot chips, golden and crunchy on the outside and fluffy in the middle. Maybe if she ate enough of them, she wouldn’t fit into her dress and would have to wear a different one.

“And Molly—Ron’s mum—she’s taken over everything! It doesn’t even feel like my wedding anymore, it’s hers!”

She hadn’t said that out loud before. She couldn’t tell Ron or Ginny how she truly felt about Molly because she was their mother, even though they too found her overbearing most of the time. And she certainly couldn’t talk to Harry about her, seeing as she was like a surrogate mother to him and he wilfully overlooked all her flaws.

“That sounds difficult,” said Pansy.

“It is! It is difficult! It’s stupid, but I thought once Voldemort died, things would stop being difficult!”

Pansy gazed into her bowl, stirring a pool of ketchup with a chip absent-mindedly.

“I know it feels like you can’t back out, but you do have a choice,” she said. “Everyone has a choice. When I did the wrong thing, it was because I was being selfish and putting what I wanted first. But I think you’re used to putting everyone else’s needs before your own. If you’re unhappy, it’s important to do what you want.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to be selfish. She wanted to please everyone, which meant doing whatever they wanted, whatever the cost.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Pansy said gently. “It’s up to you. You’re clever, you’ll work it out. You always do the right thing, don’t you?”