#best slow burn ship; they outsold

[willowingends]

A Household Name

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Pansy Parkinson/Daphne Greengrass

Rating: T

Trope: Runaway Bride

Summary: Pansy depended too long on others to allow her independence to be striped away by the hands of another, by the choice of her father.

For @hprarepairnet trope challenge

This was her big day. The biggest day of her life. Not surviving, not opening her own business, getting the best model and advertisement deal. This. She took in a careful breath, watching how the green-grey silk slid against her skin. How it tugged in just the right places, held her up in a perfect position.  It was the perfect design, the perfect cut. Her designer had been right-Sweetheart cut had been the best choice for her. To remind the world what a beautiful single they were losing.

The memory of those words, whispered from warm lips brushing against her neck made her shiver.

She tried to shake that memory of those deep brown eyes as they took her in, using the full length mirror that had been before them at the time. As those soft hands ran down her sides to check for pins. How they had slid up between her legs, arranging the slit in her dress, reminding her how to walk to get the largest flare. How those same fingers had teased across her knee, down her calves, curling around the arch of her foot to slide her feet in to the beautiful heels for the first fitting.

Pansy rolled her shoulders back, turning away from this full length mirror, nothing compared to the one she had at home, and the reddened cheeks that showed there. There was enough time in the world to preen before mirrors. Just because she was usually the one behind the model in the mirror, adjusting their hems, adjusting her hems, didn't mean she could gawk at herself the first time she saw herself in the reflective glass.

Grabbing up the bouquet of white roses, Pansy left the private dressing room. She took carefully measured steps towards the doors of the manor's great hall. A little less than what she had been promised, a little tame compared to what she had dreamed. She breathed in slowly as she took her father's arm, nodding to him.

His expression was the same as always. Cold, austere. Not even a hint of pride. The same as always.

She turned her head forward, chin held high. She didn't need his approval, she didn't need anything from him anymore. She had a fashion line shipped the world around, she had her own name. She didn't need anything he had left to give.

What a very odd thought that was.

What a refreshing thought that was.

Pansy looked down the aisle as the doors opened. The main hall, her future main hall. The chairs were half empty, names placed upon them that she had never known. Names of those that had died. Names of those who refused to sign their names to the disgraced family of Parkinson, no matter how viciously they were trying to clean their names up through marriage.

Their name. Not hers. Hers was beloved by witches and wizards alike. Her dress robes outsold Twilfitt and Tattings- her casual wear was sold in every extension of Malkins. Pansy Parkinson was a household name, and she was reduced to half her wedding seats empty.

Her hands were shaking around the bouquet now as she walked down the aisle. The petals trembled in between every step. Her eyes darted between the empty seats, the arching ceiling, the alter before her. It was the sight awaiting her there that stopped her in her tracks. Her arm slide out of her father's grasp, her lip curling up in to her typical sneer. She stared at her husband-to-be, his suave smile, his confident look.

He would make someone a good husband. But not her.

Pansy threw her roses to the floor, taking two steps backwards. “Fuck this.” She hissed, her eyes burning with anger. “And fuck you.” She snarled at her father's accusing and angry face. “I don't need you! I don't need any of this!” She knelt down, working on the straps of her shoes before taking them in one hand and standing sharply. She held out her wand with her free hand, eyes dark with anger as her father approached her, as her mom's horrified gasp sounded from the side of the hall. “Take a step closer -- I dare you.” She hissed, taking carefully measured steps backwards out of the room.

Standing in the swung open doors, Pansy gathered the skirt of her dress up and cinched it in the accessory belt her stylist had talked her in to. Regally, she tilted her head to the man she had left at the alter, the white flowers brushing her cheeks. “Nothing personal.”

Then she was racing down the halls to the floo, her bare feet slapping against the hard wood. Standing before the fireplace, she tossed the powder in, watching the flames turn a beautiful green. The green of freedom, the green of home. “Parkinson's Parlor!” She called before stepping through the flames and letting them whisk her away from this nightmare she had almost allowed her foolish self to be chained to.

In only a moment she was stepping in to the front room of her studio, throwing up a casual ward to prevent any customers or visitors to come through the same way she had. She tossed the shoes down to the side and walked quickly through the fabric filled room. There was a poor attempt to slow her steps, but soon she was bursting through to the private work rooms in the back, confronted with the back of her stylist.

Now she could be slower, now she was free. She breathed out slowly, moving to slowly wrap her arms around Daphne's scarred neck. She pressed her face against the brown hair, smiling in to the swaying body that continued to sew. Smiled as she had not since she had left the parlor's apartment two days before. Smiled as the other woman's free arm came up to wrap around her neck and pulling her down for a kiss on the cheek as she kept working.

“Glad to see you came to your senses, beautiful.” Daphne commented as she turned her scarred face to her with a smirk. “Pansy Zabini doesn't have quite the sound of a brand name.”

“Bitch.” Pansy whispered softly, pulling her face up softly for a searing kiss. “Stop working on that dress and come shag me.”