She spritzed her perfume over herself, the scent cloying and sickly. She was thankful for that though, had picked it for its overpowering scent, because it gave her something to concentrate on. Staring into the mirror, at the scraps of material that barely covered her most private areas, she felt a familiar wave of disgust overcome her.
She hated herself for being reduced to this.
Dancing for men for money was a far cry from the future she’d imagined for herself as a child. If only her family had understood that, as much as she was proud of being a Black, she didn’t want to marry for money, or status.
If only they’d understood that she couldn’t bring herself to prostitute herself for the family name.
All the good that had done her, in the end.
The loss of her family name had come with the loss of the comfort she’d grown up with, and she’d struggled to find work when she found herself disowned and thrown out onto the streets with nothing but the clothes on her back.
She hadn’t been remotely prepared for homelessness, or the real world.
When she had found out, from one of the working girls in the area, that the strip club was hiring, she’d pushed aside her inherent pride and disapproval of such things, and had auditioned.
She’d always loved to dance, and that worked well in her favour as the owner had leered at her.
Sighing, she gave herself a final once over, and pulled her hair over her shoulders, to give herself the illusion of a little more modesty, before she stood and left the dressing room.
The bar was busy, as it always was on a Saturday night. She hopped up onto her assigned post, and, letting the music overtake her, she began to dance, ignoring the men that watched her, that drooled over her.
Unfortunately, she wouldn’t be able to spend the entire night on the safety of her podium. As the night wore on, she would have to entertain the men, and that meant getting closer, swapping her podium for the bar floor, where the men awaited her eagerly for private dances.
The few moments they could get with her, and pretend that she was theirs.
…
Rabastan watched the dark-haired beauty move to the music. It was sensual in a way that none of the other dancers seemed able to manage. It was effortless, completely unforced.
She wasn’t dancing for other people. Her movements were for herself, for the music that guided her.
He chanced a glance at Peter Pettigrew, barely holding back his disgust as the man practically drooled over any female who so much as walked past their booth.
Rabastan hadn’t expected to wind up in a seedy strip club, when he’d woken up that morning, though he probably should have known. Pettigrew was trying every trick in the book to get Rabastan to invest in his failing business, and this one was an old favourite.
Not to mention that the man probably spent an inordinate amount of time there; he was the worst kind of letch.
Pettigrew chose that moment to remember that he was supposed to be working, and he turned his attention from the blonde he’d been eyeing to Rabastan.
“Well, Mr Lestrange, do we have a deal?”
Rabastan very nearly snorted.
No, they emphatically did not have a deal. Not that he intended to tell Pettigrew that, just yet. Rabastan was due some entertainment, after all, and he’d been dealing with the creep for hours.
He rationalised that he might as well take some enjoyment out of telling Pettigrew that he had a snowball’s chance in hell at getting an investment.
“Not quite,” he replied, picking up his glass and taking a sip of the whiskey that Pettigrew had ordered him.
Cheap and harsh, he quickly returned the glass to the table, with a look of distaste.
“You still haven’t provided me with any incentive to invest, Pettigrew. After all, your business is failing. You want my money, my contacts, my name; what is it that I get out of the deal?”
“Money, of course,” Pettigrew replied. He was trying to sound confident, but there was a barely audible tremor in his voice that amused Rabastan. “With your backing, my business will grow massively, and quickly. I have no doubt.”
Rabastan stroked his face thoughtfully. “I have money, Mr Pettigrew. More than I know what to do with. Try again.”
Leaving the gaping man to his thoughts, Rabastan turned his attention back to the podium where the brunette had been, only to find that she’d been replaced with a rather buxom blonde, who held little attraction for Rabastan.
He searched the bar with his eyes, trying to find the woman.
It took him a few moments, but eventually, he laid his eyes on her. She wound her way through the tables, subtly dodging the hands that reached out to touch her.
The bar had a no-touching rule, but the drunken louts didn’t seem to care about that, and the security was clearly pointless. Rabastan felt unreasonably angry at the men trying to touch the brunette.
As she neared the table, Pettigrew seemed to realise who Rabastan was watching, and he called the woman over with an uncultured, “OI!”, and a wave of his hand.
Rabastan’s fists clenched.
“A lap dance, for my friend here,” Pettigrew ordered, as soon as the woman was in hearing distance.
Rabastan looked into the woman’s eyes, and he found himself immediately enchanted by them. There was pain in them, and disgust, but there was also a beauty to them that he couldn’t look away from.
He shook his head at Pettigrew, and then reached out a cautious hand towards the woman, when she turned to leave.
“Sit, please,” he murmured, gesturing to the seat beside him. He wanted to talk to her, to find out why she was working a job that she so very clearly despised.
“Take my seat,” Pettigrew said, getting up. “I’m going to take a waz, Mr Lestrange. I’ll be back shortly, and we can conclude our deal.”
Rabastan blinked as Pettigrew walked away. Conclude? The man was clearly delusional, along with being an uncultured cretin.
“Sit, please,” he repeated, when the woman looked as though she was about to turn away again.
She stared at him for a moment, defiance in her eyes, before she acquiesced to his request.
“What can I do for you, sir?” she asked, her hands coming together to rest on her knees.
Rabastan’s heart went out to her.
“I was watching you dance earlier,” he admitted, nodding to the podium. “You looked beautiful.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Rabastan,” he corrected lightly. “Please. I… don’t mean to be rude, Miss, but why are you here? You don’t belong somewhere so…”
“So disgusting?” she asked, the defiance returning to her eyes. “Money, sir. Is that not why any of us are here?”
“How much for you to come home with me?” he asked, his desperation to not leave her there making him speak without thinking. He realised his mistake too late, the fire in her eyes deepening.
“I don’t go home with customers,” she snapped, standing up.
“I’ll give you £1500,” he offered.
…
Andromeda paused mid step. Fifteen hundred pounds was a lot of money. She could live on that for a whole month, if she stretched it out and took it easy. She turned back to the handsome man, raising her eyebrow.
“For the whole night?” she asked, tilting her head.
He nodded. “Until 8am.”
She thought that she could probably haggle for more, but there was something about his earnest features that stopped her.
“Okay. I do have to finish my shift first though, sir. Mr Rowle wouldn’t be happy with me if I left early.”
The man—Rabastan, he’d offered her earlier—nodded eagerly. “I’ll await you outside—”
She was amused when he cut himself off sheepishly, as he realised that he didn’t know her name.
“Andromeda,” she offered, before she immediately internally cursed herself for giving him her real name.
Had the months she’d worked at the strip bar taught her nothing?
He stared at her for a moment, and she realised that he thought that she was lying anyway. Her name was unusual enough that such an assumption wasn’t unreasonable.
“Like the constellation?”
She nodded. “Yes. I should…” she gestured to the bar. “I have to dance again, soon.”
“I’ll await you outside, Andromeda,” he repeated.
She could feel his eyes on her as she walked away.
…
“She was gorgeous,” Pettigrew commented, when he returned to the table. “Why on earth did you turn down a dance?”
“We’re here to do business,” Rabastan snapped. “And I’m afraid, Mr Pettigrew, that our business is concluded.”
“But… you haven’t signed,” the short man spluttered, pulling the contracts he’d drawn up from his briefcase.
Rabastan sneered. “Nor do I intend to. I will not do business with you, Mr Pettigrew, because I’ve had my people do some digging into you. It would appear that you are a traitor to men around the country, leaving debts and scarpering away like a little rat. You’re actually quite the legend, though of course, it’s for the wrong reasons. You will not make a fool out of me, as you did them.”
“How did you get information like that?” Pettigrew asked, paling drastically as Rabastan smirked.
“I have my ways. I do hope that flagging your name on certain systems hasn’t put you in any danger, Mr Pettigrew. That wasn’t my intention at all, you understand. I just prefer to know exactly who I’m doing business with.”
“You’re going to get me killed,” Pettigrew whispered, eyes darting around the room.
Rabastan shrugged, leaning back in his seat leisurely. “I believe in consequences, Mr Pettigrew. It’s nothing to do with me if yours have caught up with you. You can’t hide forever.”
“Mr Lestrange, please, you have to protect me, I—”
“Time fades, Pettigrew. Betrayal, and the thirst for revenge, doesn’t, in my experience.” Rabastan stood up. “Though I do, of course, wish you all the luck in the world.”
Rabastan walked away from the table purposefully, and stepped out into the night air. It was nearing closing time anyway, and he wanted to be ready for Andromeda.
…
Andromeda dressed herself back in her jeans and t-shirt. She wasn’t convinced that Rabastan would be awaiting her, and regardless of that, it was freezing cold and she certainly wasn’t planning on leaving the bar in her ‘costume’.
Wrapping her coat and scarf around her thin frame, she left the bar. She was surprised to find that Rabastan was waiting for her, leaning back against an expensive car. She walked over to him slowly.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, his head tilting to the side slightly.
She nodded. She didn’t need him to care, she just needed him to pay her the money he’d offered. He opened the car door for her on the passenger side, and she slid in, appreciating the smell of the leather interior.
He climbed into the driver’s seat, and, after he had put his own seat belt on, and made sure that she was wearing hers, he set off.
She kept her eyes on the route he was taking. She didn’t feel unsafe, but she was fully aware that she didn’t know this man. She knew the dangers of strangers; she just couldn’t afford to pay any heed.
They arrived at a hotel that she recognised, and she relaxed a little. He led her through the quiet lobby, and into the lift, and she was somewhat unsurprised that he pressed the button for the top floor.
The suite that they exited got out into was stunning.
“Can I take your coat?” he asked, hanging it up when she handed it to him. “Would you like a drink?” he asked then, nodding his head to the mini bar on the far side of the room.
“Water, please,” she replied.
She was impressed, despite herself, when he handed her a sealed bottle of water. At least she wouldn’t have to pretend to drink now.
He sat down on the sofa, patting the cushion beside him. She sat down, turning her body slightly to face him.
“What would you like?” she asked.
The sooner they began, the sooner she would be able to understand why he’d offered such a substantial amount.
Rabastan blinked, looking a little like a deer caught in the headlights. “Can we just… talk?”
“Talk?” she asked, blankly. “Erm…”
“I’m sorry,” he replied, sitting forward a little. “This is… I didn’t bring you here to have sex. I mean, you’re gorgeous, completely stunning, but there was just something about you that I didn’t… you enchanted me, Andromeda. The way you danced, the fire in your eyes.”
She watched him stumbling over his words and felt herself melt a little.
“I just… didn’t want to walk away without getting to know you,” he finished, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.
She fiddled with the edge of her t-shirt.
“I’m not sure what to say,” she admitted, after a moment of awkward silence.
“What’s your favourite time of day?” he asked, chuckling when she looked at him incredulously. He shrugged slightly, and then reasoned, “We have to start somewhere.”
“I like the night,” she replied, after a moment. “Without the dark, we’d never see the stars. You?”
And so, a barrage of random questions began. Andromeda was soon laughing as she answered questions such as, ‘bath or shower?’ and ‘chocolate or crisps?’.
“How did you end up at that strip club?”
The question came out of nowhere, and Andromeda sobered immediately. “I… I…”
“You don’t have to answer,” Rabastan assured her, reaching a hand out to caress her fingers cautiously. “I just… want to understand. How can someone as special as you work somewhere like that?”
“I was disowned,” she admitted, after a moment. “By my family. I was a Black.”
She saw the recognition in his eyes and sighed. “They wanted me to marry a Malfoy; the joining of two powerful families was most desired, according to my parents. When I refused, my father disowned me, and the contract was passed onto my little sister. I was left on the streets with nothing, and nowhere to go. And then I was told that the bar was hiring. Money is money, and is necessary to survival.”
He nodded slowly, and she could see the dismay, and the empathy in his eyes as he listened to her story. He stood, tugging her to her feet. She followed him to the bedroom, and her heart sank when she realised what must be happening.
He’d decided she wasn’t the something special that he’d thought she was and had decided that he might as well get his money’s worth from her.
They didn’t exchange words as they stripped down to their underwear, and Rabastan climbed into bed first, holding the covers up for her.
When she settled beneath the sheets beside him, her body stiff and unyielding, she expected him to start pawing and mauling her immediately.
Instead, he gently rolled her onto her side, away from him, before he pulled her back into the middle of the bed, spooning her from behind. He wrapped his arm securely around her waist and pressed the gentlest of kisses against her bare shoulder.
“Sleep, Andromeda,” he whispered. “Stay with me, and sleep.”
“Rabastan—”
“Sleep,” he repeated softly. “In the morning, we’ll talk, but for now, I just want to lie here with you in my arms and thank all the gods for placing you in my path. Sleep.”
She could little else but follow his instructions, and within moments, she’d relaxed into his embrace, as the sandman stole her away into dreams of comfort and protection, and kind brown eyes.
…
Andromeda appeared at his side, looking beautiful in an off-the-shoulder black dress, and he wrapped his arm around her automatically, holding her close to him.
“She was flirting with you,” she murmured, and when he looked at her, he could see the amusement on her face. “Apparently, the women here haven’t gotten the memo that you’re off the market.”
He shook his head. “We can’t have that, can we?”
“Indeed not,” she replied. “How can we fix it?”
“Since I cannot take you over the banquet table, this will have to suffice,” he murmured, leaning forwards to press a chaste kiss against her lips.
Andromeda’s laugh echoed around the ballroom.
Later that evening, when people began departing, and Rabastan had a quick word with one of his work partners, Andromeda stood outside awaiting him, her eyes on the stars.
“Are you ready to go home, sweetheart?” he asked, joining her.
“Home sounds good,” she replied, more meaning in her words than a reference to their long day.
She leant into him, and let him lead her to their car. With which he would drive them to their home.
She couldn’t believe how far they’d come in the six months since he’d asked her home with him for money. She couldn’t believe how far she’d come.
Who would have ever thought that a job in a seedy strip club could have helped her land such a happy ending.