Dealbreaker

Hermione had moved out of the Burrow at the first opportunity and into a smart one-bedroom flat in Orphik Alley. In wizarding properties, tenants were allowed to make whatever alterations they liked, as it would have been impossible to prevent them from doing so and changes were easily reversible. She had thrown herself into renovations, choosing fresh colours: shades of lilac, calm blues and cool whites. Verdant houseplants in pots added life and brightness, while anything of a colour that even remotely reminded her of the Chudley Cannons was disposed of immediately.

She opened the door, revealing a bouncy new haircut, and ushered Pansy inside.

“Nice boots,” said Pansy, admiring the pairs of shoes lined up inside the entrance. There was a pair of knee-highs she hadn’t seen before. Leather.

She then received a tour, including a detailed description of the changes that had been made to each room, except for the last.

“And here’s the bedroom,” said Hermione. “Um, please, sit down.”

Pansy took a seat on the bed and waited until Hermione brought back tea. They each sipped from their cups and nervously realised that conversation was faltering.

“Are you… feeling cold, at all?” asked Hermione.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Pansy assured her. Autumn had graced the streets with biting winds, but a fire had been lit in the other room, warming the entire flat. Afternoon sunshine cast a skewed rectangle of gold across the sheets.

“Oh. Right.”

Hermione looked away, slurping her drink. The tea was hot, but the conversation was stone cold dead.

It hadn’t been this awkward before they’d kissed, Pansy thought regretfully. Or even while they’d kissed. In the tent, at the music festival, they’d been chatting and joking, laughing about—

It was then that she remembered her own suggestion about treating hypothermia. She carefully put down her teacup.

“Now that I think about it, it’s quite chilly in here. I think this flat may have a draft.”

Hermione’s head turned, her eyes hopeful.

“Do you think?”

“Yes. Definitely. I’m freezing. I’m so cold, I can’t feel my fingers.”

“Me too,” said Hermione, lunging forward and reaching for the buttons on Pansy’s dress.

It was off her in a blink. The next moment, Hermione had pulled her own jumper over her head and was fumbling with the clasp of Pansy’s bra, kissing her fervently, insistently. Pansy’s heart was burning.

Her hand was on Hermione’s thigh, cautiously travelling upwards until her fingertips rested on the metal fastening of her jeans. Before she had a chance to undo it, Hermione took over, wriggling out of them impatiently and falling back onto the bed with a sigh, pulling Pansy over her.

“Wow,” said Pansy, struggling for a suitable adjective. “Wow.”

“You’ve seen me in my underwear before,” Hermione pointed out. She arched off the bed, reaching behind her back to undo the clasp of her own bra and tug it off. “I spent hours trying on dresses.”

“That was work. I wasn’t looking at you like this.”

“Very professional of you,” Hermione grinned. She threw her bra across the room. “Disappointing, but professional.”

“I thought about you after. When I—”

Hermione raised her eyebrows expectantly, an inquisitive smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. 

Pansy pressed her lips together. She’d sworn to herself not to lie, but I thought about you when I was touching myself sounded a tiny bit too honest. 

She’d never imagined, when Madam MacGinty had handed her that hideous orange dress, that Hermione would be the witch wearing it. She remembered kneeling at her feet, seeing her glaring down at her, arms folded, hating her. Later she’d thought of kneeling in that same fitting room, putting her head between Hermione’s thighs and finding ways to persuade her that she was good.

“When I wasn’t working,” Pansy finished politely. “I thought about touching you,” she confessed.

“How?” Hermione whispered. “Show me.”

Pansy slid her hand between Hermione’s legs and slowly stroked one finger up the cotton fabric of her knickers, watching her. 

She dipped two fingers into her mouth, wetting them, and slipped her hand beneath the fabric, gentle and questing. It was as if she had flicked a switch.

“Oh, God, yes, I love the way you touch me,” Hermione babbled. “Ever since— ribbons, you— please, like that, don’t stop,” she begged.

Pansy didn’t stop. Hermione threw a leg over Pansy’s hip and a hand behind her head, fingers tangling in dark hair.

“I’m, I’m,” she babbled again, “making a fool of myself, but I don’t care! Oh, oh, oh…”

It was overwhelming. Pansy had to put her head down, mumbling into Hermione’s collarbone. Hermione’s hips stilled and her whimpering ceased, panting breaths filling the air.

“What did you say?”

“Granger Danger,” Pansy repeated, lifting her head. “It’s what we used to call you, after you slapped Draco that time. You’re dangerous.”

Hermione swallowed, looking upset suddenly. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said quietly.

Pansy shook her head and laughed.

“You’re killing me,” she said, kissing the side of Hermione’s neck, which was damp with sweat. “I’m dying. You’re so sexy, I’m dying.”

Hermione relaxed. She smiled shyly, biting her lip.

“I’m not trying to be. I’m just being myself.”

“Exactly,” Pansy breathed, then kissed her deeply, pressing their tongues together.

She resumed the rhythm of her fingers, drawing out pleasure, thrilling as Hermione writhed breathlessly beneath her.

*

Pansy idly watched the other guests while Hermione and Daisy May’s sister, Bea, held an in-depth conversation about Voltaire. Luna Lovegood twirled by tossing confetti. She didn’t seem to have any shoes on.

Strictly speaking, Pansy was Hermione’s plus one, although she was also acting as her bodyguard, ready to cast a Notice-Me-Not if she saw Molly approaching. Luckily, the mother of the groom appeared to be very busy talking about hats.

Harry Potter was on the dance floor, being spun around by his energetic wife. Seamus Finnigan had set the punch alight and there seemed to be three Weasley twins knocking about somehow.

“Psst!”

She turned around. Ronald Weasley was poking his head through a slit in the marquee, beckoning to her. She went to touch Hermione on the shoulder to let her know, but he waved frantically.

“No, no! You!” he mouthed, pointing.

Pansy frowned and followed him out of the tent, all the way to the edge of the garden and behind a large wooden shed.

“I should thank you,” he said, rocking on his heels. “You, uh, helped avert a major disaster.”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Pansy. “She dumped you all by herself. I just listened to her.”

“Yeah, well. Good thing somebody did.”

“No regrets, then?”

“None. Me and Hermione weren’t right for each other,” he said, repeating the party line even though they both knew the truth of it.

“Yes, I know. Did you summon me here so I could give you tips on how to satisfy a woman?”

“No!” The tips of his ears went bright red. “I don’t need—I just wanted to say thanks! Hermione seems really happy with you. And I’m glad. She deserves to be happy.”

“She does,” Pansy agreed.

“Er, do you have any tips, though?”

Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Ask her what she likes, and pray she doesn’t say ‘women’.”

“What are you doing over here?” came Hermione’s voice as she padded over to them carrying two flutes of elderflower cordial.

“Talking about the weather,” said Pansy blithely, taking one.

Ron did a strange kind of bow and scurried off.

“Really?”

“And about how glad we both are that you didn’t marry him.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Hermione laughed. “What a disaster that would have been!”

They drank a toast: to love, to each other, and to finding the perfect fit.

end.