Lansy One Shots

Finding Finally

Summary: Millie takes you to Fashion Week parties, runway shows, all the things you've seen before, but the unfamiliar people and places refresh you. Barely anyone knows you, barely anyone cares to. You drink too much, you wake up with models, and you love it. That is until you leave the outdoor Rodarte show to find yourself an unopened bottle of Armand de Brignac and run into Luna Lovegood.

Ship: LunaLovegood/PansyParkinson

All credit goes to spookywoods on Ao3

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When you fall in love, it isn't a subtle realization. Nothing you do is subtle. It isn't a question of if you love, it boils down to how much. And that's a question you never ask, from the Hermes handbag you carry to the deepest, strangest places of your heart.

How did you get here?

You took a portkey, that's how.

The inescapable lure of New York in September and Millicent Bulstrode-Harwick footing the bill made leaving behind the stream of endless, meaningless parties and faces back in London easy. And you like things easy.

You've always loved New York. It doesn't try to hide what it is, and you love the lack of nonsense, the grit that surrounds the elegance of steel and sweat. It makes the brick and silk and society that much more striking. New York doesn't lie to you, and that's how you know you're fucked.

Millie takes you to Fashion Week parties, runway shows, all the things you've seen before, but the unfamiliar people and places refresh you. Barely anyone knows you, barely anyone cares to. You drink too much, you wake up with models, and you love it. That is, until you leave the outdoor Rodarte show to find yourself an unopened bottle of Armand de Brignac and run into Luna Lovegood.

Bathed in the distant and muted lighting from the after-party tent, she's animated and exquisite as she talks to a man you vaguely recognise as a French wizarding fashion columnist. When Lovegood looks your way, the recognition traps you, and your feet refuse to save you from the pull of her captivating stare.

"Hello Pansy," she practically sings, and it's a siren's song, the mere cadence of her voice. "Are you enjoying Fashion Week?"

Her long blonde hair is like a waterfall over her shoulders, waves of reckless curls falling down her back, hiding most of a vintage Chanel red floral blouse. You're impressed that she's paired it with a high-waisted black mini skirt that covers very little of her legs. You envy her sun-kissed skin. Maybe you stare too long at her knees, the curve of her calves, wondering all of the things she did to get such a golden glow.

Finally, you smirk, and say something vague, rhetorical like, Does the earth go around the sun? You've been known to muck it up, and you wonder if you have already; after all, you have had a lot to drink. Maybe you say it wrong. Luna smiles either way and invites you to Jean Portier's show, rumored to have fused magnificent florals with traditional wizarding robes for Spring.

It hits you then that Luna Lovegood cares about fashion, that she wants to be seen with you, talk to you—and that's a slippery slope. You don't acknowledge the past, you don't admit anything, and you certainly don't hang around with someone you once considered an enemy. You laugh at the ridiculous notion of the two of you sitting together at a show.

"Good day," you think you say as you meander through the crowd to find that dose of bubbly you'd wanted. You drink, you dance, and you forget you even saw your reflection in her big, blue eyes. But when you stumble up to a penthouse loft with an Italian model, you remember her cascade of blonde hair, genuine smile, and those perfect, tanned legs. You remember what it felt like to be recognised, remembered.