Author's Notes: I have decided that it is best to combine all of my Pansy/Luna stories for 7spells (on LiveJournal) into one, organized collection. Therefore, what you are about to read is comprised of seven unrelated ficlets and drabbles revolving around the Pansy/Luna pairing. Each one will be in a separate "chapter". The titles are in bold, the prompts are in italics.

Of Ribbons and Honesty

Pansy sits in the library with her legs folded beneath her, not crossed, because that's hardly proper when one is on the floor. Not that existing anywhere near the ground is proper, but she can stray only just so far from what she has been taught all her life. That's why her back is straight, even though she would rather lean it against the case of books behind her.

In her hands, she holds a ribbon that she pulls between each of her fingers in succession. It's pretty and satin, of a deep midnight blue, and she likes the way it feels as it brushes against her skin. This is all she can do with it: enjoy it as she is doing. Her hair is too short for her to successfully tie anything into it herself, and after all, the color doesn't become her because she's brunette now, and the blue would only lose itself in the brown. If she was blonde still, it wouldn't matter. But it looks better in Daphne Greengrass's hair, which is almost red, but not quite.

Pansy knows that this is why the ribbon is Daphne's and not hers. Slytherins know what they must have to flaunt what they already possess. Daphne is no exception, and perhaps this is why Pansy stole it from her: she doesn't believe she has any features worth drawing any attention to, so why should Daphne, her closest ally, have the ability to raise herself above those far and near and equal to her? (It hardly matters that this is also the Slytherin way.)

This is the reason why Pansy is sitting upon the library floor with her back pressed against nothing but stale air. She won't give the ribbon back, but she will have to let it go, toss it away, because she has no use for it. In the library, a place in which no one will ever suspect her of lurking, she can have the ribbon to herself. She can feel it without having to covet it; she only covets the skill of wearing it, though such a feeling will disappear when the ribbon does the same. Out of sight, out of mind.

All the same, (for she has no mirror), she brings her hands to her head and slides the ribbon beneath her hair. The ribbon's ends come upward of their own accord, and they tie themselves together, moving in what she wants to believe is a dance that is anything but mundane. But when she pauses, coexisting with the ribbon in her hair, she cannot forget what it looks like. She cannot cease to picture how foolish it must make her seem. So she curls her fingers as if into claws and she tears it out, tossing it onto the rug.

What she doesn't expect is the white hand that reaches down and grasps it, raising it to a pair of protuberant blue eyes. Pansy's gaze begins to first examine the weathered shoes of the newcomer, (the intruder and the thief), and then the hem of the robe beneath which they are partially concealed. Then her glance rises, slowly, to take in the black folds of the cloth and the blue of a Ravenclaw badge upon the subtly rounded rise and fall of a chest. Next comes hair of a shocking blonde that is parted into two sections. On one side, beside a radish earring, it is gathered with a ribbon that resembles the one which Pansy has just lost; the other side hangs in a curtain, free from ties.

Pansy hadn't even noticed her approach.

"Lovegood," the Slytherin growls, disconcerted at being caught. But this is only to be on form; she doesn't have anything against Luna Lovegood. Not really, even now.

Luna's eyes snap onto her, unblinking and startled, as if she has only just realized that someone else is there.

"I'm sorry," she says in a voice that is almost eerily calm. "Is this yours?"

Pansy hesitates, even though it shouldn't matter that she'll have to lie.

"I thought it might be mine," the Ravenclaw continues, and she doesn't notice the sudden conflict which Pansy is feeling because of her simple question. "Someone took one just like it from me this morning. She wasn't very nice." Now she looks at Pansy as if she is the only thing before her. "I don't think that you took it, though."

Pansy bites her lip. "It's not mine," she admits at length. She blames this confession upon the presence of Luna's blatant honesty. This isn't the first time she's borne witness to it.

"I didn't think so," is Luna's response. "You don't seem to like it very much."

"I don't." Another confession. "It doesn't look good." If she maintains this habit, she'll lose count.

"I think it's pretty," says the girl evenly. She holds the ribbon between her thumb and forefinger and brushes it across the back of the opposite hand. She feels it like Pansy has felt it, and appreciates it in the same way. But this is where the similarities cease, for the ribbon would be even more striking (and contrasting) woven into Luna's hair.

"On me," Pansy mutters. "You can have it. I don't want it." She feels better now that she has lied.

Luna frowns. "Oh no, I don't want it. I think you should keep it."

"I don't want it," Pansy says strongly, repeating her lie.

Luna ignores her in the calm manner that she seems to exude and pulls her wand from behind her ear. (Pansy hadn't noticed this before, either.) She runs its tip along the ribbon's length; in a wave, like ink seeping into wet parchment, the midnight blue lightens to the blue of a flower bathed in moonlight. Pansy almost expects it to drip with dye, and when Luna approaches her, she wonders if it will smell sweet.

It doesn't, though Pansy isn't disappointed. She prefers this shade to the one which it formerly was, though she won't say this aloud. Not to anyone who matters.

Luna's fingers deftly slip the ribbon under Pansy's hair and she brings the ends together above her head. She checks that they're even, tugging upon one side when she discovers that they're not, and then she ties them soundly. She rotates the ribbon round until the knot is obscured, where no one will see it, and she takes no more than a second to admire what she has done.

"I think that's better," Luna claims. She doesn't ask Pansy if she believes so as well, although there is no way for her to do so without first seeing her reflection. But somehow, she feels she doesn't need to. Pansy can picture it in her mind, and what she envisions is pleasing to her.

She thanks the Ravenclaw girl, though 'thank you' is something that rarely rests upon her tongue because it's never really necessary. Then she surprises herself by saying it again when Luna excuses herself (she has homework to do and there's some sort of creature that she has to find).

"Good luck," Pansy adds when Luna is almost gone. "With finding your ribbon, I mean."

Luna smiles, as if to say 'I already have,' but all the same, Pansy feels a flutter in the heart that lays somewhere deep inside her.