Dealbreaker

“There she is!” Pansy cried, pointing and yanking on Greg’s ear to steer him.

She was sitting on his shoulders wearing wellies, denim shorts, a faceful of glitter and a crown of flowers in her hair. She’d had to use a charm before she left; she didn’t know how the Muggles were keeping theirs looking so fresh.

Hermione was standing in the queue, holding a patchwork crochet bag close to her chest and looking around. She spotted them, waved, and then was shepherded through the barrier.

“Put me down, put me down! Hi, did you get here alright?”

“Well, I’m here,” said Hermione, already looking a little overwhelmed at the crowds of people.

The festival took place over two days, and most people were staying overnight. The boys went to set up the tent while Pansy dragged Hermione to the main stage to see the headline act. A woman in fishnet tights with cropped blonde hair came out and got the crowd roaring and jumping.

They danced, drank, and wandered aimlessly, pointing out strange sights and chatting in the hour-long queue for the toilets. When evening fell they stumbled across the grass amidst clusters of tents, passing exhausted revellers whose faces were lit by the soft glow of cigarette lighters as they sat in subdued circles, drinking and talking.

“Ours is the one with the rubber duck on top,” said Pansy. “Shout if you see it.”

“Why a duck?”

“That’s the function of a rubber duck, isn’t it? Like a signpost? Oh, finally, here we are!”

Pansy gestured for Hermione to go in first. She poked her head inside the tent and then drew back immediately, staring at Pansy as if she had suddenly sprouted another nose.

“What? Don’t tell me they’ve forgotten the sleeping bags. Idiots.”

“No, it’s just…” Hermione wriggled inside and sat cross-legged. The top of her head grazed the ceiling. “I didn’t realise it would be a Muggle tent, that’s all.”

“It’s a Muggle festival. Is this not okay?”

“It’s fine,” she said, climbing into a sleeping bag that had been laid out for her.

Pansy took her shorts off and rustled into her own sleeping bag. Their faces were very close to each other.

They stayed up at least another hour, laughing and talking about the music and the things they’d seen, like the man wearing an inflatable T-rex costume and the woman with five colours in her hair. Hermione was confident she had seen Mr Blobby walking around, but Pansy hadn’t seen or heard of him and explaining his appearance turned out to be quite challenging.

“So you had a good time?” said Pansy, lying next to her.

“Yes, of course. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to this part. I don’t have great memories of tents.”

“Why’s that?”

“Um. The war? While you were in seventh year, me, Ron and Harry were on the run for a bit. In a tent. A magical one, though. I’d sort of forgotten there was any other kind.” 

Pansy sat up like a shot. “I’m awful,” she pronounced, staring mournfully at her knees. “I didn’t think.”

Hermione pushed herself up on her elbows and sat up too, touching Pansy on the arm.

“You’re not awful. It’s fine, I can’t hold a grudge against tents. I just need to make good memories to balance out the bad ones. Although,” she said, shifting on the hard ground, “I’m starting to think tents aren’t that comfortable even if you’re not a fugitive.”

“No. I am awful. I didn’t want you to get married. When I heard you two broke up, I was happy.”

Hermione moved closer, silhouetted in the dark.

“Why?”

“Because I wanted you to run away with me,” Pansy confessed.

She’d been thinking entirely of herself, of the stupid fantasy she had constructed in her mind, so it took a moment for her to react when Hermione leaned forward and kissed her.

It seemed unreal: the soft pressure, the tilt of her head, her face and hair so close and melding into shades of grey in the darkness.

But it was real, and the opportunity felt like it would come once in a lifetime. Pansy cupped her jaw and opened up, sinking deeper into the kiss.

It felt too good to be allowed, but it was so, so easy. Her abdomen curled at the sounds they were making.

“You’re shivering,” Hermione whispered.

She was. It could have been from the chill in the air, from sitting half-out of a sleeping bag on damp ground in the middle of September, but it was really from this. She never thought she would be allowed to have this.

“Where’s my wand? I’ll cast a warming charm…”

“No, don’t,” Pansy whispered back. “We can’t cast spells here. Muggles.”

“They won’t notice.”

“No, but, I don’t want to break their electrics. A lot of them carry mobile telephones.”

A slow smile broke across Hermione’s face. She leaned in again, brushing the tips of their noses together teasingly.

“See, you’re not awful, you’re nice.”

“I’m cold, is what I am. Maybe we should huddle for warmth,” she suggested.

Hermione took this seriously: she unzipped her sleeping bag and moved to let Pansy climb into it. For a minute they were all elbows and knees, and then they were pressed up against each other. It was a snug fit, but it was much, much warmer.

They kissed again, seeking the heat of each other’s mouths. Pansy wasn’t sure where her body ended and Hermione’s began until Hermione pulled back a fraction, her eyes bright.

“You’re supposed to have skin-to-skin contact to treat hypothermia,” she said, affecting casual innocence.

“Is that right?”

“Mm-hm.” 

Pansy manoeuvred herself out of the sleeping bag ungracefully and peeled her vest top off over her head, abandoning it somewhere. Hermione watched her, seemingly forgetting to breathe for a moment, and then did the same. She was only a dark shape, an outline against the translucent, moonlit wall of the tent, but Pansy wanted her.

Hermione lay back, her head landing softly on the pillow, craning upwards to be kissed again. Pansy leaned down, pressing their bodies flush and daring to swipe her tongue across Hermione’s lower lip. She was rewarded with a gasp and the sensation of Hermione’s icy fingertips skating cautiously across her back, her waist, her ribcage.

She silently urged her to be bolder, and when this didn’t work she took Hermione’s hand and brought it over her own breast, squeezing.

This unspoken permission inspired urgent enthusiasm. A soft, high noise escaped the back of Hermione’s throat and she gripped hard, Pansy’s stiff nipple pressing against the skin of her palm, whilst moving her other hand to grasp the curve of Pansy’s arse.

The divine intimacy of skin on skin, of being stroked, gripped, explored, wanted; it lit a fire in her, but it wasn’t enough to stop her shivering. The frigid air chilled her to the bone and the cool, synthetic fabric of the sleeping bag interrupted them with obnoxious rustles.

“I want this,” Pansy whispered sincerely, lips an inch from hers, “but I’m fucking freezing.”

Hermione dropped her head back and exhaled a laugh.

“Oh, God, me too! I want to, but it’s so cold, and I’m quite tired, can we…?”

They scrambled into their clothes again, laughing at themselves, and snuggled back inside the sleeping bag, squashed and cosy. Pansy tucked an arm around Hermione’s waist and dropped her head to the pillow.

“Maybe we should try treating hypothermia when we’re somewhere warm,” she suggested.

“Good idea,” Hermione yawned.

The pair of them fell asleep wrapped around each other.

*

“My back,” Hermione groaned the next morning. “I feel about eighty years old…”

Greg Goyle stuck his head inside the tent flap and chucked a pair of Twix at them.

“Breakfast,” he explained, at Hermione’s confused stare. “Am I carrying you, then?”

“Er…?”

Pansy nodded. “He will, it’s no trouble.”

“Um, maybe later.”

Regretfully the boys insisted on packing the tent up early, which ruined Pansy’s chances of convincing Hermione to spend all day inside it with her, naked. They wandered about the festival, barely taking in any of the music. They spent the entire morning working up the courage to hold the other’s hand, and the afternoon wondering how they would ever be able to let go.

“When did you put glitter on your face?” Pansy asked. Hermione’s cheekbones were shimmering in the sunlight, which she hadn’t remembered them doing yesterday.

“I think you put it there,” she laughed.

*

The four of them: Pansy, Theo, and Greg giving Hermione a piggyback, travelled back across the lawn, past litter pickers, fatigued festival-goers, technicians, and stewards mumbling into walkie-talkies. It was a long walk. It hadn’t felt this long yesterday.

“I’m bored!” Pansy exclaimed through a mouthful of sticky chocolate and caramel. “Greg, tell Hermione what Millie did in fifth year.”

Greg stopped so suddenly that Hermione nearly tumbled off his back. She yelped and tightened her arms around his thick neck.

“We don’t talk about Greenhouse Three!” he cried desperately.

“Boring. I’ll tell you later, Hermione.”

“No, Pans, you can’t! We all agreed never to speak of it again!”

“Alright, I promise I won’t tell her,” she sighed, then caught Hermione’s eye. Greg gaped.

“I saw that! I saw you wink at her!”

He deposited her by the main road, then headed off with Theo to a nearby pub.

Pansy and Hermione each went home rumpled and happy, to sleep and dream about seeing each other again.