Luck be a Lady

She swung her legs around the pole, gyrating and grinding against the cool metal. She tried to focus completely on the movements of her body and the beat of the pounding music, but she could still hear the men in the audience hooting out obscene suggestions, and the occasional, "Take it all off!"

It was at times like this that she hated her life.

When the men were especially boisterous and obnoxious, and the music's incessant beat became too monotonous, and she began to feel just naked on the stage instead of like a performer. She just wanted to grab the tiny sparkling top that she'd already shed and run off the platform, away from the pole and slick floor and all the lusting eyes trying to see every inch of her exposed skin.

She never did, though. The feel of the crumpled, sweaty bills being shoved into her g-string and garter always stopped her. She had to make a living, and this was as good a way as any. In fact, if you discounted the blisters covering her stiletto-clad feet, and the soreness in her body after long shifts of dancing, it was easier and less stressful that the other jobs she'd tried out.

At least she didn't have to pretend like she loved every customer that walked through the door, and had to cater to their every need like she had at the fast food restaurant she had worked at. Here, she was aloof, even while performing lap-dances. It was all part of her stage persona. She was called Scarlett, and was known for being fickle.

The club she worked at, The Pink Diamond, was not the snazziest strip joint in the city, but neither was it the rattiest. The floors may have been scuffed, the bar covered in deep grooves and worn, and the stage lights flickering, and the air might be permanently filled with the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat, but it was a place to work.

She sometimes wished that she still had a family, and friends, and a life outside the flashing lights and stale air of the club. That was no longer possible, though. She had never thought, in her previous life, that she would end up working as a stripper in a Muggle club. But that had been before everything had happened. She missed before.

She continued with her routine, the same motions and moves as she performed every night. As she was doing a particularly popular move involving arching her back, she spotted a glimpse of pale blond hair in the audience.

She nearly froze, but willed herself to continue with her dance. She twirled around the pole again, and stopped herself when she was facing the blond man. It was him. He was right there, looking at her unclad body with vague interest, but no recognition.

She wanted to leap off stage, and yell, or throw something, or do... anything.

She didn't. She kept on with her striptease, and as she crouched at the edge of the stage to allow a blubbery man to stuff money into her garter, he caught her eye. He smirked at her, and mouthed at her one word. Later.

He wanted to see her.
She wasn't sure how to feel about the idea, so she didn't. She had never felt as grateful for her set of songs to end as when she heard the final strains of the hard rock song with a vulgar title she did her finale to. She quickly gathered her discarded clothing and the lecherous men's money from the dance floor and hurried backstage. She took a last hurried glance at where the blond man had been sitting. He wasn't there.

She made her way to the small dressing room, and dumped her sparkly top on the counter, and began to pull the money out of her garter and g-string while kicking off her four-inch stilettos. She shoved the cash into her bag, which lay next to the chair. After stripping out of the g-string she pulled on her favorite sweatshirt and jeans, and sat down at the chair to remove her costume jewelry. She had just unclasped her left earring when she saw something in the mirror.

It was him.

He moved into the small room with the grace of a jungle cat. His regal attire and posture looked absurdly out of place in the dressing room with its dingy walls and a cracked ceiling. He didn't seem to notice, though, as he leaned against the doorframe, blond hair shining in the harsh fluorescent light that always bleached out her skin.

"Hello." His voice was low and rolling, and as elegant as it had always been.

She stared at him for long, long minute, then replied with a quiet "Hello."

"What's your name, darling girl?" he drawled. He didn't recognize her! She wasn't sure whether she should feel elated or angry.

"Scarlett," she replied, making her voice as sultry as possible. She ran one hand over her denim clad hip seductively, blood red nails contrasting vibrantly with the pale blue.

"Well, Scarlett," the name rolled off his tongue like it was the most delectable word he had ever said, "How would you like to come with me for the evening?"

She quickly considered her options. She could turn down this opportunity, or she could go with him, and possibly, just possibly...

Finally get her revenge.

"I would love to," she said, and didn't even bother to shield her excitement from the man. He mistook it for a different type of eagerness, and grinned down at her, and kissed her hard.

She didn't struggle.

After he released her, she grabbed her bag, then allowed him to lead her out of the club through the back entrance. She climbed into his luxurious Mercedes-Benz, sinking into the plush lambskin seats with a sigh. She had never been in a vehicle this expensive, this glamourous before. He started the car, and they sped off. They cut through the traffic like a scythe. The plebeian rules of the road didn't seem to apply to him. He was above everyone else, and they seemed to realize it.
After about twenty minutes, they arrived at an opulent house. He slid the car smoothly into the large garage attached to the house. He climbed out, and she did the same.

She followed him into the house, and up a gracefully sweeping flight of stairs. He opened the door to a large, expensively decorated bedroom, and made a grand gesture for her to go in first. After shutting the door behind him, he turned to her.

They kissed.

There was no softness about the kiss at all, it was all about harshly pressing mouths together and a gnashing of tooth and tongue and lip fueled by a sudden passion. She was fueled by a passion of hatred, him of lust. Groping and tugging of cumbersome clothing followed, then by sweat and flesh pressing together and a brutal joining of bodies.

Neither one pretended to care about the other. She was biding her time, and he was wasting his. After, he slept soundly beside her on his stomach, a thin trickle of blood escaping from one of the deeper scratches on his shoulder. She lay on her side, looking at him.

Should she?

She didn't see why not. She crept out of bed, picking his crisp white shirt off the floor. She tugged it on, buttoning it enough to cover her nude body and the burgeoning bruises on it. She then began to search his clothing's pockets looking for...

This. She pulled the slender wisp of wood from his jacket pocket. She had his wand. She could get her revenge. These long years of misery. Ever since Voldemort had made his second rise to power. He had done a better job this time, and had systematically killed anyone opposing him.

Her family had gone early.

She had been away, taking some bread to a lady across town as an errand to her mother. When she returned, she found a silent house with a Dark Mark floating above it, grinning down at her sinisterly. She'd run inside, panicked.

Her mother and father had been lying in the entranceway. Looks of shock adorned their stiffening faces. She'd frozen in place, not even able to make the quietest sound. That had been what spared her.

She had heard two voices from the other room, and she had recognized one immediately. How could she not have? He had made her life miserable for years, since she'd been eleven years old. The voices continued to move deeper into the house, and she realized that they had been heading toward the kitchen. She heard the back door slam. She was alone.

She searched the house, and found no one living. She did find her dead brothers. All save one had been home. She ran from room to room, seeing only death and emptiness, and a creeping fear had settled into her stomach.
Later that evening, as she huddled next to the fireplace and tried not to think about the fact that she was staying in a house full of corpses, an owl arrived. It was meant for her parents, and it told of her favorite brother and his best friend's demises. The war had killed them, too. She had no one left.

She herself left the next day. She left her wand in that crypt masquerading as a house that she had called home for so long. She traded what little money she could find for Muggle money, and found herself living among them. She floated through life, working where ever the best money could be made. Eventually, she had realized that the best money was made by entertainers of all sorts, and had chosen to become one. And, luck be a lady, the very target of her rage had appeared in the sleazy club she danced in, and had invited her home.

Now, she was staring at the pale face of the one who had caused her misery.

She aimed the wand at the blond man. Her hand shook slightly. This was it. She would avenge her family. She was strong, no longer a weak little girl who sobbed over spilled ink.

"Avada Kedavra." Her voice didn't shake, and she bit the syllables out clearly. Green light flashed, and the blond man's back stopped rising with breath.

She backed into a corner of the room, and huddled down, clutching her knees.

She cried.

***
fin.