Wot In The Harri Potter?

1 - Scarlett

May 2000 ~ two years after the Battle of Hogwarts

*****

Gone Girl

Today marks the two year anniversary of victory. But the question on everyone's lips is "Where is Harriet Potter?" - the hero who made our freedom possible.

Sources say that the Chosen One has not been sighted since the funeral of her late fiance, Fred Weasley, which took place two months after the battle.

Could it be that grief and a broken heart has driven our brave witch into hiding? Harriet Potter's disappearance has certainly been felt within the wizarding community, with people mourning not only the fallen fifty, but for the loss of our hero too.

Where is she now, and just what has become of the Girl Who Lived?

*****

The man looks down at the business card in his hand.

Soho Dream Girls

He double checks the address, wanting to make sure he's in the correct place. He knows, however, that his source will not have let him down. He paid good money for this, after all.

He checks the other side of the card, where a name is scribbled. Scarlett.

Slipping the bouncer the correct amount of Muggle money, the man finds himself in a room filled with red light and smoke, the music soft and sultry, the atmosphere as seedy as he'd feared.

He makes his way to the bar, straightening out his suit, trying to hide the disgust he feels at simply being in this place.

"Whiskey, double." He orders to the barman once he reaches the counter.

As he waits, his eyes roam to the stage where a topless woman dances up and down a pole. He finds the display both hypnotic and disturbing, not being able to tear his eyes away from her slim, naked body, cursing himself at the reaction his body makes.

A glass lands down in front of him, and the man quickly knocks it back, slamming a twenty pound note down on the counter.

"Tell me when Scarlett is due on stage." He demands.

The bartender looks at him in surprise. "She's not exactly the favourite. I heard she never uses the private rooms. But I believe she'll be up next."

He waits patiently. Well, of course he does. He'll wait an eternity for her.

*****

"Scarlett! You're up next!"

Sighing, I take one last look in the mirror, making sure my make up is perfect and lip gloss properly applied.

I rearrange the bright red wig of hair on my head, making sure that no stray raven strands have slipped free.

"Remember," Andrew, my pony-tailed, white-suited boss, says, "anymore complaints and you're out."

I glare over my shoulder at him. "That twat last night grabbed my tit! He deserved a knee in the nuts. He was lucky I didn't hex him!"

"Hex him?" Andrew asks, his eyes popping out of his head, "what do you think you are, a witch?!"

Yeah, about that. I sometimes forget that I have left that world behind.

Andrew struts off, muttering under his breath. I take one last glance at myself and stand up.

I stride out of the changing room and go to the stage door, the clack of my heels echoing loudly against the hard floor. I quickly dance my fingers over the hem of my thong, making sure nothing is twisted.

Red thong and black stilettos: all the uniform I need. Not forgetting about the scarlet wig, of course.

My cue is Andrew's voice, booming over the PA: Next on, our very own Scarlet Woman!

Taking a deep breath, and remembering why I am doing this, I push the door open and make my grand entrance on stage.

The pole is my friend, I concentrate on nothing but it as the music swells over me.

I take no notice of the many eyes on me. It's the only way I can cope with this job. Because, after all, it is just that: a job.

But there is something about it that I like - no, not the oggling eyes. It's the way I get lost in the music and simply forget about everything.

But I also feel a sense of power on that pole. It's nice, I like it. I like it a lot.

Except for the part when the music stops and I know my show is over. It's always the same - we start our shift off with a show and then waitress the rest of the evening, hoping that the show was good enough to make someone order a lap dance.

I hate that part of my job. It makes me sick being that close to those lecherous men. They usually smell vile, like whiskey and sweat, and I can always feel the hardness in their laps as I move over them trying to ignore the way their eyes roll back in hunger. And when they ask for more - to be taken to a room in the back, I always refuse.

I may need money, but I do not need money that bad. I suspect I would be sacked by now but even our boss knows it's the only part of the job that is illegal, after all.

I know some of the other girls do it though - those who are desperate enough. I am told it is mostly blow jobs they want, but on occasion it is full on sex. I do not know what would be worse.

What kind of man visits these places? I can never understand it. I like men, but I would never think about parting with money to actually be with one. I could certainly give or take sex, but are the male of the species really not capable of this? I want to be with a man who wants me too, not because I've given them a shit load of money.

What is it about sex that they feel the need to risk ruining their lives and reputation over? I know for a fact that some of the men who have requested a lap dance from me have been famous in the Muggle world. A certain married prime minister here, an engaged royal there, and a stuffy BBC television presenter simply gagging for it.

Eventually the song comes to an end and my show is over. I sigh heavily as my feet land on the floor and I move away from the pole, nodding to Steve the barman as I saunter off the stage to a small and very unenthusiastic round of applause.

"The guy in booth six is requesting a lap dance," Steve says gruffly as he places a whiskey sloppily onto a tray. "He's paid over the odds for it too."

Instead of putting the bottle of whiskey back on the shelf behind him, he places it on the tray next to the glass.

"Don't worry, Scar," Steve adds kindly, clearly noticing the fall of my face, "I warned him you never do private dances. Just give me a shout if he gives you trouble, alright?"

I smile gratefully at him. Steve has always looked out for us girls and never expected anything in return. Without him I probably wouldn't feel safe working here.

"Thank you, Steve," I murmur, taking the tray containing the whiskey from him.

He gives me a nod, and I appreciate that his eyes never once glance down towards my firm, pert breasts which are glistening with sweat and glitter: just how the punters like them.

Slowly, and carefully, I walk towards booth six wondering what will greet me. Clearly the guy is loaded if he can afford the entire bottle of whiskey and to pay over the odds for a dance. I entirely expect him to be fat, old and bald.

However, when I turn into booth six, what greets me makes my heart leap up into my throat.

For there, sat smirking with arms propped up either side of him, looking as though he owns the place, is Draco Malfoy.

"Hello, Potter," he drawls softly, silver eyes twinkling mischievously, "I'd recognise those tits anywhere."

******