Chapter Text
“So we’ll be closing the place down to customers starting at about eight this Saturday. That leaves two hours or so for the girls to freshen up, custodians to clean the club, and for everyone in general to—”
“— prepare themselves, if you will.”
Fred and George Weasley fed off of each other as they walked through their lounge one Wednesday shortly after opening hour. It was still mostly barren, as the majority of customers would only start to show up once the sun went down. There were the regulars, however; the lonely middle aged men that partially believed they had a chance with the half nude girls dancing in front of them. They ignorantly assumed that those girls just needed saving — and who better to save them than themselves?
“Only the best of the best for our mates, Sylvie.” George said before Fred continued, “And the toughest of the tough. You know our boys are a rowdy bunch, we don’t want any girls that aren’t afraid to tell one of them to piss off if they get too handsy.”
“I only employ the best and the feistiest, guys. You know that.” Sylvia replied.
She led them to the bar where Fred ordered a bloody mary to start off his morning and George began looking over that quarter’s paperwork. “Tips have been through the roof lately. Hope that doesn’t change with summer coming to an end in a few weeks.”
“Oh no,” Sylvia laughed, “that’s courtesy of my newest dancer, Y/n. She’s a chemistry major and an amazing potioneer. Just after I hired her she pitched a new drink idea — it’s pretty much a vodka cranberry with a few drops of diluted love potion mixed in. Doesn’t make the men actually fall in love, but it does make them enamored enough to drop an entire paycheck in one night. My girls and customers have never been happier!”
The twins glanced at each other, but not because of the ethical aspects of that information. They were impressed that they hadn’t thought of it first!
“Clever girl,” George mentioned before sticking his nose back in the paperwork.
“What’s that thing dad used to always say to mum?” Fred snapped his fingers, “ What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. So long as our girls are making money, we’re making money. That’s all that matters.”
The three finished their walk through of the club with the twins telling Sylvia how they wanted each table, stage, and even chair set up. They made sure to have extra firewhiskey on that week’s inventory order, and reiterated multiple times that she only put her top dancers on the schedule for the night.
“We want them classy,” George specified.
“But still a wee bit trashy, if you know what we mean.” Fred clarified with his signature mischievous grin.
“I know you two don’t visit much these days, but trust when I say that my dancers are artists.” Sylvia reassured while walking them out the back door, “And my artists will be arriving soon. I don’t need the two of you scaring them off, so best be going now.”
The iron door slammed, deadbolt securing loudly in place immediately after.
“Did we just get kicked out of our own strip club, Georgie?”
“I believe so, Fred.”
The pair had long moved out of both The Burrow and the two bedroom apartment above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. These days they stayed in a large, gated estate just outside of London. It was just far enough away from their family home that they had to register all of their fireplaces with the Floo Network, but close enough to their business ventures that they could apparate to and from.
As they sauntered down the alleyway, away from any muggle that may accidentally spot them, a thought entered Fred’s mind.
“Y/n,” he mumbled, rolling your name around in his mouth for the first time in years. It still lit an inferno in his chest just as it had back then. “Say, you remember Y/n L/n, don’t you? From Hogwarts?”
George smirked, “How could I possibly forget our favorite plaything? Wonder what she’s up to these days.”
/////
You’d specifically asked Sylvia three months in advance for Saturday night off, yet here you were, working.
To make matters worse, there weren’t even any television sets inside of Nyx Lounge . “Sorry, YN, but the owners strictly prohibit it. This isn’t a sports bar! We don’t want our customers watching the quidditch match when they come in, we want them watching you !” Sylvia had declared when you’d begged her to install a few after finding out your off day request had been denied.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself while getting ready in the mirror. “I ask for one night off to go watch the World Cup, and instead I have to perform like some circus monkey for a bunch of spoiled brats that’ve just come from their private seating at the fucking World Cup .”
“Hush, Y/n, before Sylvie hears!” Leona whispered from beside you.
“At least you’ve got the opening set. By the time we go on it’ll be a bloody madhouse out there.” Another dancer complained.
You couldn’t deny that it was flattering to be given the opening set, although a bit intimidating. Some dancers hated being first on the stage for a big party, as it was their job to set the tone for the entire night. One slip up and they would only expect the worst of everyone else, but a perfected performance meant everyone went home with full pockets.
“You really think it’ll be that bad?” You asked while dusting your cheeks with a light blush.
Winnie scoffed from behind you, “You’ve obviously never met the owners. They’ve only closed the club down for a private party once before, and we all left filthy fucking rich that night.”
“Lighten up. Maybe you’ll make enough tonight to finish paying for uni, then you’ll never have to work another World Cup in your life.” Sage added.
From outside of the dressing rooms, you and every other dancer could hear the abrupt hoops and hollers of an impressively excited group of young men. Together they chanted Ireland’s war cry, signaling that the match had ended in your favor.
Fred and George stumbled into their lounge at the front of the pack; all of their lifelong mates filing in shortly behind them. They’d made their friends take it easy during the match by promising an even better show for the afterparty, but that didn’t stop the men from becoming high off of adrenaline after watching Ireland’s seeker snatch up the golden snitch.
“Sylvie! Get the pitchers started, will ya?” George shouted over the ruckus. He and his brother flopped down into their seats center stage while everyone else eventually found somewhere to plant themselves as well.
As soon as the first round of drinks were served, Sylvia rushed into the dressing room and pointed you out. “You’re on in three minutes, Y/n.”
It was always a rush taking the stage for the first time in a shift. Exhilarating, to say the least. That fluttering in your chest when the lights dropped and all that could be seen was your shadow against a royal purple background — it was better than any man’s hand around your throat, more empowering than seeing the intimidation in their eyes as they approached the stage to slip you a well deserved tip.
You pulled a transparent bodysuit intricately threaded with shimmering crystals over your black bikini and stepped into your heels. It was show time.
All of the guys noticed the dimming of the lights, but it was Fred that first heard the low echo reverberating from the sound system. When they’d first opened the club, he liked to visit pretty often just to make sure the atmosphere was how he’d envisioned it to be. Fred had been to his fair share of strip clubs, courtesy of Bill and Charlie, and he didn’t want his lounge to be anything like those sleazy holes in the walls.
This was a gentleman’s club, afterall, and when he recognized VCTRY’s cover of Black Magic Woman, his heart swelled with appreciation for this dancer’s music choice. He neglected the conversations ensuing around him, the sway of shadowed hips taking him back to those days when he was barely old enough to own a place such as this at all. You grabbed the silver and circled it slowly, climbing it with a grip strong enough to choke most assailants out.
As you arched your back, spinning around the pole with one arm out before lifting your legs to grip the silver between your calves, you neglected looking out into the crowd. Becoming distracted was every dancer’s downfall.
Fred smacked his brother on the shoulder, motioning for him to take a look at the piece of art being created right before their eyes — and George was immediately captured by the smooth shadow of curves and hair. They sat back in their seats and admired the view, clenching their glasses in their fists as neither of them were immune to the spell of such intricate creatures that were women.
You got your spell on me, baby
You got your spell on me, baby
Yes, you got your spell on me baby
Turning my heart into stone.
As the beat dropped, so did you. You arched backward, hair falling away from your shoulders and arms away from your body, weight supported solely by your legs as your form was illuminated in white light and you spun around the silver metal.
Both Weasley twins felt their hearts stop in unison before shifting back up into overdrive. Fred’s mouth fell open while George’s curled up into a shit-eating cheshire grin.
“I-Is that…” Fred stammered.
“I think so, brother.” George finished.
It’d been nearly six long years since they’d last laid eyes on you, but never could they forget a face so enchanting. Each twin was immediately swallowed up by those same feelings they’d fought tooth and nail against during their time at Hogwarts; the feeling of being so overwhelmingly bewitched by one person’s existence that they had to take care of the problem with the only solution they’d ever known — by terrorizing you.
Of course, they’d matured a bit since then. Neither one was going to hex you in the middle of your performance. That would mean the show would be over, and this was the closest to heaven they would ever come.
The song began winding down and you finally opened your eyes. The blinding lights caused the edge of the stage to work as a trick mirror; if you could see the crowd, that meant they could only see your shadow. If you could only see their shadows, that meant everyone watching could clearly see you. As you planted your feet on the stage for the first time in four minutes, you noticed two tall, well built figures coming closer. Your first tip of the night.
You lowered yourself to your knees and began crawling toward the edge of the stage sensually. “Not too provocative. These are businessmen .” Sylvia had warned you.
While theirs may have stopped and restarted, your heart merely sank as you came face to face with the customers. The lights shifted behind you and caused the trick mirror to disappear, leaving you staring up at the two smirks you’d dreamed of slapping time and time again.
“Well, well, well.” Fred chanted, followed by George, “Speak of the devil and she will appear.”
~
Once your set was over you rushed off the stage without saying a single word to Fred or George Weasley. The two shots of vodka you’d swallowed down after toweling off hardly did anything to still your racing heart.
There are tons of clubs I can go work at , you thought to yourself. None in London catered almost exclusively to magical beings though.
With your shift only halfway over, you knew there was still work to be done; drinks to be served, money to be made, lap dances to be given. You looked at yourself in the mirror and took notice of the pink tint on your skin.
“You alright?” Sage asked as she laced up her heels.
No, you absolutely were not alright, and as you glanced out of the dressing room to see your two childhood enemies chatting with your boss, you were even more not alright .
Leona nudged her hip against yours, “Come on. Sylvie said the guys are ready for a second round and Winnie’s set is about to start. They’ll be ordering private dances soon.”
You swallowed your pride along with another shot of alcohol and followed her out to the bar, where you gathered up a platter of cocktails and pints and all of the spirits that helped you pay for uni. The tormentors you’d once known had already taken their seats once again, their eyes sitting heavy on you as you moved closer.
“Let me guess, I’m fired.” You said casually while sitting the platter down on their table, trying your damnedest to not sound like you were seething internally.
George reached for the glass of ale as you placed it on a napkin in front of him. “Now why would you assume that, Y/n?” He chuckled.
“According to Sylvie, you’re making us quite a bit of money.” Fred added.
“Love potion spiked cocktails, hm? Bloody genius. You always were quite skilled in potions, weren’t you? Like when you slipped Freddie and I a babbling beverage just before study hall that one time.”
Fred slipped his hand out of his pocket, reaching for your hip gently as if to corral you into his lap. You caught him by the wrist, your gaze staring into him like the sharp blade of a dagger. “No touching.” You spat.
He cocked his eyebrow and glanced at his brother. “Always were the feistiest, too.”
You served the two of them their drinks, along with a whole other group of men that you’d wished to never see again. Seamus, Dean, Harry, Ron, Neville, Oliver, and Lee — though at least those old classmates of yours were already drunk enough to have become face blind. Instead their eyes sat heavy on your breasts as you worked them over. Poor Neville seemed to have never gained much confidence after the war. He simply melted when you planted yourself on his lap and stroked the nape of his neck with your fingernails.
As the night went on, you didn’t speak to the Weasley twins again. Though their eyes continued to follow you around the room, never once did they step out of line. In fact, they were surprisingly well behaved, considering the nuisance they’d once been in your life. Every time you mustered up the nerve to glance in their direction, at least one of them smiled while the other winked at you or blew a kiss. They’d lean in close to each other and mumble words that you couldn’t hear, but you knew that you were the topic of their discussion. It made your skin feel hot all over.
You and Willow closed out the night with a joint set, as usual. By then even Fred and George were at least a little bit tipsy, and the other dozen men were stumbling over themselves to reach the stage and slip a couple bills inside your top. The feeling of empowerment didn’t falter just because you knew them — in fact, it might have even increased, seeing as the same men that were now begging to touch your skin had once tried to knock you off a broom during quidditch matches.
Some of the other dancers liked to see the customers off as they paid out their tab. It gave the men hope that they genuinely cared about them, sometimes securing a few extra tips for the girls that put that much care into their performance. You, however, preferred to slip away undetected once the waitresses gathered up the mens’ credit cards. A couple of extra dollars wasn’t worth the peace and quiet you got to enjoy while finally peeling out of a sweaty, sometimes ripped bodysuit and hopping into a much needed shower. There, you washed away their fingerprints that stained your skin. It was a strict rule at Nyx Lounge that no touching was permitted unless invited by the dancer, but a few squeezes always managed to “slip” into the hands of more aggressive men.
You tied up your wet hair and dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, trading out your heels for a pair of sneakers. All of the money you’d earned was secured in the secret zipper hidden at the back of your duffle bag. Your coworkers had been right, you’d earned enough to pay for two months of rent in a single evening.
The burly security guard stationed at the alleyway door smiled at you as he bid you a good night, but as you made your way down the dimly lit, damp corridor, you didn’t hear the metal door shut behind you.
“Y/n, wait!” Sylvia shouted. You turned on your heel and saw her sprinting toward you with a white envelope that looked to be bursting at the seams even from a distance. “Stop sneaking out on me! Here’s the rest of your tips. The guys said they loved you.”
Sylvia handed you the envelope with a knowing smirk on her face. On the front of the paper your two least favorite letters were scribbled, “F + G” , and below that a phone number.
“What the hell does this mean?” You asked, irritability dripping off of your tongue.
She shrugged, “Don’t ask me. You’re taking main stage for closing sets on Fridays and Saturdays from here on out though.” Sylvia began to start back toward the bodyguard who still held the door ajar, “Congrats, love. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
You stuffed the envelope into your bag and didn’t dare pull it out until you were locked safely inside of your apartment. Once there, you spread the contents of it out on your coffee table. Beautiful bills ranging in color and worth sat in front of you. After counting it thrice to make sure you weren’t mistaken, you sat back against your couch in disbelief.
There was enough cash there to pay for your entire upcoming semester of school.
The envelope it’d been delivered in lay in your lap as you buried your face in your hands. “F + G” . It might as well have been another one of their cruel pranks. They gave you that money to shame you, to pity you, because they knew that you needed that money or else the three of you would’ve never come face to face again in the first place.
Worse, they were expecting a phone call.
You looked down at the numbers scribbled on the paper and ran your fingers over the ink. It would be rude to not thank them for their malicious generosity, but the thought of doing so just didn’t sit right with your soul. They owed you this money for the years of torment you’d endured. All of the pranks they’d pulled on you during school, the broken ribs and dislocated shoulders attained during matches, even the dates they’d stumbled upon and ruined – perhaps this was an apology payment.
If that were the case, you pulled out your wand and incinerated the envelope. It wasn’t necessary to thank someone for an overdue apology, and you weren’t going to give into the Weasley twins’ bribery.