Lavender Brown was not a slut.
She used to be, a little bit, so perhaps it was not entirely accurate to claim that the instinct had truly left her, but no, honestly, not anymore, she really wasn't.
Men had always been a source of fascination for her – the way they walked, the way they smelled, the way they could get hard in an instant and push up against her, roughly kneading her breasts like dough and breathing hotly at her that they wanted her, wanted to fuck her so hard, yeah, come on, and really, who could resist that? It was intoxicating to be wanted that way, and for most of her youth, Lavender had been able to conveniently push aside the fact that it wasn't really her they wanted, not for herself; it was any tight cunt they could sink into that wouldn't protest too much.
She'd grown a great deal more cynical about it all now. A werewolf mauling would do that to a person.
Well, all right. Mauling was a terribly dramatic sort of word. It wasn't all that bad, really. She had come close to dying after the Battle of Hogwarts, but that was mostly just from blood loss, not the effects of the bite itself, and after spending a good year or two flinging her hand over her forehead and whinging to any man who would listen that she was So scarred! So hideous! Who would want me now! and crying into the delicious pink cocktails they would buy her to make her feel better, she'd woken up one morning alone in a hotel room she couldn't even remember entering, with her knickers hanging from the lamp shade and a ten quid note with her name on it on the nightstand. She'd sighed, coming to a decision. Well, two:
First, she was going to spend that ten quid on new pair of earrings and then never think about it again, because God, what did that man (men?) take her for? Second, she decided that she would not be a slut. Well, she would no longer be a slut, in any case. She would choose her men carefully.
That was where the Silver Arrow came in.
She had been there before, on the arm of a sometimes-boyfriend who liked her to crawl under the table and suck his dick while the girls on stage gyrated and let his twenty Galleon coins tinkle in the sequined pouches at their hips. It was the sort of place that was nice enough that the girls were clean and the drinks affordable, but not so nice that you would ever catch the Minister for Magic being serviced in a private room. The blinking logo outside showed a burly centaur releasing an erect, speeding arrow towards a giggling, buxom woman, who was happily pinned against the far side of the last W of the sign with another arrow already pierced through the thin, neon pants between her legs. As far as imagery went, Lavender thought it was really quite clever: the arrow was phallic, see, and so it was obvious to passers-by that the club welcomed men who thought they were centaurs in the sack, so to speak, promising them a clear shot at the girls inside.
After visiting a few times with that boyfriend, however, the last of which ended with them both getting thrown out when he tried to snap a finger through the hip strap of a dancer's pants, she soon learned the cardinal rule of the Silver Arrow: the customers could not fuck the girls. Well, the rule was that they couldn't touch the girls, but that was only because in a place like that, touching led to fucking, and there were other establishments the men could frequent if that was what they wanted. The Silver Arrow was only for drinks, good times, and unfulfilled hard-ons.
It would be the perfect place to work, Lavender figured, if she wanted to train herself to stay away from men.
"Linus is out front again," Cynthia giggled to her one night after Lavender had been working there long enough to earn her own dressing table backstage, "asking for you, like always. 'Oh, Lavender!'" she sang out mockingly, clutching her hands to her heart. "'Let me see your scars, love!'"
Lavender frowned. Her scars, it so happened, ran over one shoulder and down her breasts. They didn't show much anymore, and at the audition, Johnny had carefully examined them before deciding that with nipples so pink and hips that moved like that, no one was likely to notice the scars too much, so she generally didn't worry about them, except when they became club slang for the request that she take her bikini top off and shake her tits in Linus's leering old face.
"Think he likes you, love," said Cynthia with a wink, sashaying past in her skimpy costume, and Lavender finished dotting red gloss over her lips.
"I think he likes tits and arse," she said with a shrug. "Mine are just more recognisable, with the scars."
Cynthia paused, appraising her. "You know, you could put a glamour over them," she said, squinting. "It is a bit nasty, isn't it?"
"Oh, shut up," said Lavender, rolling her eyes before setting the gloss down and picking up her mascara brush. "Besides, what do I care? I ain't trying to shag any of those blokes, so they can say what they want about my tits. Doesn't stop 'em from filling my pouch with Galleons, does it?" She swivelled her hips a bit in the chair to jiggle the pouches, smiling at the sound of clinking coins.
Cynthia gave her a pointed look. "Whatever you want, love, but you know, it's not a crime to go home with one of them every so often." She grinned wickedly. "Johnny don't have to know, and besides, as long as he ain't forcing you, it can be good money on the side."
Lavender sighed, waving Cynthia off and finishing with her make-up, but no sooner had she got rid of one meddling slag than another came bustling through the curtain to the dressing area.
"He's here!" squealed Fiona, her face flushed and her red lips glistening. "Again! My God, I can't believe Johnny won't let the papers get wind of it. That's three times this week, and we're supposed to keep quiet?" She flailed around the room, opening jars and smearing various creams and glittering oils onto her face and body as she chattered. "Last time he got a private room with Mel, but she wouldn't say nothing about it after! Just that he was a perfect gentleman, getting off in his own trousers like he was supposed to, not trying to stick a finger up her or nothing. Can you believe it?" She paused, inhaling deeply and clutching a fist to her heart. "If I were his wife, I would go down on him all day, you know? Never let him leave the house with an arse that fine." She sighed dreamily. "I'd just lie back and let him fuck me constantly."
Lavender winced, setting her mascara down and taking a deep breath. Bloody hell. Seeing him here one night this week had been bad enough. When he'd returned, she had hardly been able to believe his nerve, and Fiona was right: Mel had been fairly tight-lipped about what had gone on between them in that room. But now to come back again, when his face was still in the Prophet from Puddlemere's championship game, and he had endorsements on the line? Getting photographed with his dick out at the Silver Arrow would not do Roger Davies's career any good.
More to the point, Lavender had really had quite enough, thank you very much, of thinking about Roger Davies's stupid dick.
Roger Davies, with his perfect blond hair and that arse she just wanted to grab onto and eat for dinner. Roger Davies, with his Quidditch-honed swagger and easy smile. Roger Davies, who had brought a Veela bird to the Yule Ball that year – and a French one, at that; everyone knew what slags those girls were – and had made a big sodding production of pushing his hand into her dress and thumbing her nipples in full view of everyone. Or, okay, in full view of everyone spying on him behind the rose garden that night.
But the point was that Roger Davies had slept with all the other sluts at Hogwarts, so why not Lavender? She considered it a personal affront, and had never quite forgiven him. To that day, she refused to watch or listen to a single one of his Quidditch matches. She liked to think that one day, he might even notice.
"Do you think he goes down on his wife?" Fiona continued, dropping into a chair and sighing, her chin resting on her hand and her eyes far away. "Imagine, Lavender!" she urged. "Those cheekbones, cutting into your thighs." She giggled. "Oh, I bet he's brilliant at it. I bet he could–"
"Okay! Yeah, I bet he is. Shut up now, yeah? Got to go on." Lavender pushed her chair back and straightened her shoulders as she stood, lifting her chin and taking a deep breath. A moment later, a new song started up, low and grinding with a bass line that pulsed through her body, and a slow smile tugged at her lips as she swept onto the stage, closing the curtain behind her.
She sauntered forward with swaying hips, her strappy heels clicking against the smooth floor of the stage. The music was good tonight, slow and sensual and just how she liked it, the lighting dark and her hair swinging over her shoulders and back. She grabbed one of the poles and leaned into it, legs spread wide and breasts pushed up on either side of the cool metal, and the hoots from the crowd made her smile.
"That's it, sweetheart!" she heard Linus call, his gruff, booze-soaked voice unmistakable. "Show us your scars!"
She gritted her teeth and ignored that. Men were all the same, really, and what did it matter anymore? She was off men, for good. The reminder of her resolution gave her renewed energy, and she pulled her wand out of the side strap on her lacy knickers. Twirling around and whispering a word, she Vanished her bikini top in time to flash her tits at the crowd as she rotated back around again, and Linus let out a loud hoot. She kept her hands over her head and moved her hips in slow circles, daring their gazes to wander down to her hips and arse, not her bare breasts, but there were few takers.
"Now the knickers!" someone else shouted. "Let's see that werewolf cunt of yours!"
Well, that was a new one. She kept her face impassive, but her eyes wandered over to Roger, who was staring over his shoulder at the crowd, as though even he couldn't quite believe someone had said that.
Sod it. The money was good, and as long as Johnny was keeping watch from the booth, none of these wankers could ever get anywhere near her cunt, so she felt all right about it. With another flourish of her wand and a whispered word, her knickers melted away, leaving her onstage with only the curves God gave her and a pair of strappy heels. She turned away, arse to the crowd, and sauntered back up the catwalk, pausing near the curtain to spread her legs and bend forward, letting her hair fall over her face and her back arch. She glanced back over her shoulder to wag a finger at the jeering men, warning them not to be naughty, before smiling and turning again, moving with the music over to the pole, pausing only to Accio a few coins the men offered up on raised hands, sending them sailing backstage to her dressing table.
She hooked one leg around the pole, holding it in the cradle of her knee and bending backwards, her werewolf cunt, if that was going to be the expression of the evening, on full display. She didn't mind them looking. It was a damn good cunt, after all, meticulously cared for and more than up to standard, if the pleasure it generally gave her was anything to go by. She refused to shave it, but did keep it neatly trimmed, and frankly, no one had ever complained about it before.
Glancing out at the crowd again, she caught Roger's gaze and let her mind momentarily drift back to her dorm room at Hogwarts, the way she would slip her fingers under her knickers at night when she thought about him, circling her clit and making herself wet. Just like Fiona had said, she used to imagine his mouth on her, his tongue licking at her wetness and pressing down over her clit, making slow circles with the tip and driving her hips up to beg. She imagined him fisting himself while he did it, moaning into her thighs and letting his hair fall over her belly button, and then he would move up her body, his cock in his hand, and push it inside her. She imagined he was bigger than any other man she'd had, and sensitive without being overly delicate. He would kiss her as they fucked, letting her know just how much he wanted her but also just how valuable she was, how bloody lucky his cock was that she'd let it inside her like that.
Bollocks, fuck, now she was getting wet onstage, and that was not on, but Roger was still watching her, so she transferred her wand from her other hand and bent back further, one leg still artfully wrapped around the pole, and she began to tease herself with the wand. The crowd roared, shouting obscene comments and pressing their hands over their groins as she let the tip of the wand slip just inside.
But the song was ending, and she knew Mel would hex her nipples off if she went over time and interfered with Mel's next set, so she slowly slid the wand away and did a little grind with her hips, before releasing the pole and strolling back up the catwalk, waving casually to the crowd as she disappeared behind the curtain again.
Cynthia met her with raised eyebrows and a robe, which she gratefully pulled over her shoulders. "I hope that was for Davies, and not Linus," she quipped, her eyes dropping down Lavender's body, but then she grinned, heading back to her own dressing table. Lavender ran a hand over her face, her cunt still wet and aching from thoughts of Roger.
"Brown!" a sharp voice called out through the curtain, and Lavender glanced up. "Get your kit on. Imperial room, three minutes."
She paused. The Imperial room was the best private room they had, or so Johnny insisted, decked out as it was in gaudy leopard-print tapestries and clashing Persian carpets, but she liked private gigs. The time passed more quickly, and a girl could make more money there in half an hour than shimmying down the catwalk a dozen times a night. She donned a new bikini, refreshed her make-up and pushed aside all thoughts of stupid Roger Davies fucking her brains out. It was bad form to get aroused at work, especially when one worked at a place like the Silver Arrow. She brought an image of sweating, panting Linus into her head to teach her aching cunt a lesson, winced into the mirror – oh, bugger, yes, that was working – and headed to the Imperial room.
"This is our Lavender, sir," Johnny said as he opened the door for her, grinning like a cat who had just caught the canary. "Enjoy yourself." He gave her a light smack on the bottom as he withdrew, and she rolled her eyes, moving inside as gracefully as she could, considering that...
... bollocks. Roger sodding Davies was the man who had ordered her services in the private room, it seemed, and really, she should have seen that one coming. He lounged back against the crimson cushions of the sofa, his shirt already unbuttoned halfway and a look of pure amusement on his face.
"Our Lavender?" he began, raising an eyebrow. "So this is where you've been hiding since the war." He tilted his head to the side, openly appraising her body.
She lifted her chin and stood before him, letting him look. "And this is where you've been coming to get off with strippers, I see," she shot back, her voice and smile equally sweet, and he laughed, a surprised, drawling laugh.
"Touché," he said with a grin, "but I'd be lying if I said I didn't come here looking for you."
She paused. "Me?"
"Your colleagues are brilliant bonuses, of course, and do tell the red-headed girl – what was her name? Missy? – well, tell her I say hello. But no, I came here for you."
She moved forward at that, kicking her heels off and sinking one knee onto the couch. "Ah, ah," she tutted at him when he lifted his hands. "No touching." With that, she lifted her other leg up and straddled his lap, licking her lips at the altogether too pleasurable feeling of his clothed erection grinding underneath her.
"You work fast," he breathed, glancing down.
"You only paid for the room for half an hour," she reminded him, and he laughed.
"Don't know if I'll need that long."
"Oh, but I will," she assured him, clicking her fingers to turn up the soft, pulsing music already humming through the room. She went into performance mode, beginning to gyrate on his lap, moving her hands over her breasts and up her collarbone, sucking a finger into her mouth and then letting it slide down her body, trailing wetness down her stomach and into the top seam of her knickers. He exhaled, long and slow, his hands in fists where he tried to keep himself from touching her.
Oh yes, this was what made every night at the Silver Arrow worthwhile. No more letting men paw at her or shove into her anytime and anywhere. She still had all the power over them that she'd had before, but now, she was the one who got to call the shots. She could dance like this all night, slowly grinding away on the lap of a handsome, muscular man until she shuddered and came if she wanted to, but he could do nothing – he had to simply watch it happen, hard and desperate and unable to have her.
She licked her lips.
"And what were you looking for from me?" she breathed against his ear, her fingers unbuttoning his shirt and sliding over the muscles of his chest and stomach as he groaned, punching at the sofa cushions on either side of him.
"Heard about you from some of the blokes on the Cannons," he said with a wink as she sat back, colour seeping up his neck and cheeks. "Heard those werewolf scars gave you all sorts of license to lower your standards, shag your little heart out with whoever asked you to." He groaned in her ear, lifting his hips up against her.
She blinked at him. "Lower my standards?" she repeated, trying to keep her voice flirty even as her stomach knotted.
"Yeah," he said with a growling laugh. "I mean, blokes don't really want to look at that mess when they're fucking a bird, yeah?" He nodded down at her shoulder and chest, wincing at the scars. "Bet you don't get as many offers as you did back at school, when you'd ride any cock that came along." He made to bite at her earlobe, and she turned her head away, her fingernails scratching over his nipples. "Nnng," he moaned again, and she frowned. Didn't mind a bit of pain, then.
"Mm," she grunted in agreement, her mind racing. "Never rode yours, though, did I?" She slid her hands up through his hair and down the back of his neck, pulling him closer but still not letting him kiss or touch her.
"Well, now's your chance, sweetheart. Tell you what," he said, his eyes hooded and his face flushed with arousal. "I know it's against the rules, but if you know how to shut those cameras down–" he glanced up at the corners of the ceiling – "I'll give you fifty Galleons to ride my cock right now."
She bit down on her lower lip to keep herself from spitting in his face, lowering her head instead to breathe kisses up his neck. Her right hand slid down his side and into his left pocket, fingering a small band nestled inside it, and he groaned in exasperation.
"Oh, Christ," he muttered. "Don't tell me you're going to give me a hard time about my wife." His glare hardened as he looked at her, but she pulled her lower lip under her teeth and removed her hand from the pocket, shrugging. "That boss of yours signed a contract, yeah? None of you girls can tell a soul I've been here, and anyway, what do you care? You get off with married blokes all the time, I'd wager."
She nodded slowly, coming to a decision. It wasn't precisely against the rules, what she had in mind, and she could probably make a case to Johnny if he asked any questions, but she'd better fix the cameras just in case. It was a fairly easy spell, one the girls knew but was blocked if any of the customers tried it, even the Aurors. If the girls wanted to make a few extra Galleons on their own terms, well, Johnny usually looked the other way. He really was an all right sort, just wanting to keep them safe – and bringing in his income. "Course I do," she purred to Roger, kissing under his earlobe. She turned then and grabbed her wand from the table, pointing it at the cameras and murmuring the spell, and Roger laughed.
"Jenkins and Poole were right, then," he said, his hands coming up to grip her hips now that she'd consented. "You really will put out on a moment's notice, won't you?" He leaned in to kiss her, but she pressed her fingers over his lips, smiling.
"I really will, Roger," she purred, "especially for you. But I have another proposition for you." She dropped her voice. "You can keep your fifty Galleons," she murmured, letting her hand trail down over the bulge in his trousers, "if you let me do this my way."
He pulled her hips in close, grinding up against her. "Yeah? What's your way, then?"
"You won't have to look at this mess at all," she said, gesturing over her chest before lowering her head again and moving her lips over his neck. "I don't ride your cock," she breathed. "You ride mine."
He went still at that, a blinking, frozen second passing before he pushed her away and stared at her. "You're a bloke?" he croaked. "No bloody way. They didn't tell me that, those fucking poofs!"
She climbed off his lap, shaking her head. "Not on your life," she said with a laugh, and she stood before him, quickly removing her skimpy top and knickers before running her hands over her body. "All woman," she assured him, narrowing her eyes. "Even the werewolf cunt." His cock twitched at the words, and she had to refrain from rolling her eyes. He really did think he was doing her a favour, did he? Well, that, and the fact that he seemed to get off on the idea of fucking a woman he thought of as a werewolf bitch. Bloody men. "Take your clothes off and show me yours, and I'll show you what I mean." He hesitated, his lips parted and his eyes darting around the room as he considered. "I'll make it worth your while, Roger," she said breathlessly. "I promise."
He got to his feet slowly and pushed his shirt off his shoulders, and then began unfastening his trousers. He kicked his shoes off and shoved the trousers and pants down, as Lavender moved towards a small cabinet behind the door and rummaged through it for a moment. She found what she was looking for but didn't pull it out of the drawer yet. Instead she turned, getting her first eyeful of Puddlemere United's star Chaser in the flesh, every curve of muscle on display for her and a large, erect prick standing out from his body. The ache in her cunt ratcheted up a notch, and for a brief moment her teenage fantasies crashed through her again, making her fingertips tingle with the anticipation of shoving him back down to the sofa and sinking on top of that cock, letting it thrust heavily inside her and fill her up until she couldn't breathe.
He put his hands on his hips and shook a stray strand of blond hair out his eyes at that moment, smiling at her, and the fantasy evaporated as the arrogant berk stood there, knowing exactly how bloody good he looked, and she remembered what he'd said to her.
She pulled the item out of the drawer and held it behind her back as she crossed over to him again, holding a finger up to his lips to keep him from kissing her and then trailing that hand down his chest and stomach, feeling out his muscles and lightly hairy chest before dropping her hand to his dick and clasping her fingers around it. He moaned and tilted his hips towards her, clenching his arse and already thrusting into her fist, and she smiled to herself. He was already so far gone; this would be easy.
With a shove, she turned him around and pressed herself up against his back, letting her breasts graze over his spine before pulling him back towards her and winding her free hand around his body. She grasped his cock again as he groaned, and as she stroked up and he lost a bit of control, she manoeuvred him forward onto the sofa, his knees spread wide and his hands clutching at the sofa back.
"Okay, what...?" he muttered, but she didn't allow him any room to think it through.
"Trust me," she breathed in his ear, her hand moving from his cock around his hip and up between his legs to massage his balls, rolling them in her fingers as he relaxed even further. "You knew I always wanted to fuck you back at school, didn't you?"
He turned his head as far as he could to look at her, a smirk on his face. "Yeah. Guess I should have done," he said, "but you were always so busy with other blokes." He gave her a knowing look. "Didn't think you'd have it in you to take me on as well."
She forced herself to breath out evenly and not strangle him. "Ooh, yes," she cooed, her fingers moving delicately from his bollocks up the cleft of his arse. "My cunt was so full of come all the time, I couldn't possibly have fit yours."
He groaned at the image, dropping his head forward and spreading his legs even wider, and as she gently teased the rim of his opening with her fingers, she decided she'd better let him in on the game. There was no way he'd say no at this point, anyway.
"Roger," she breathed again, keeping her voice as stripper-seductive as she could, and he swallowed, turning again. "Do you like what I'm doing to you?"
He took a shuddering breath as she slipped a finger just inside, exploring, but he didn't pull away. "I... God, Lavender. If this is what you need to get wet, all right."
"I told you I was going to fuck you," she murmured. "I told you that you were going to ride my cock." She mouthed up his spine, pressing soft kisses into his back as she dropped the thin dildo she'd been holding to the sofa beside them and moved her free hand around to grip his cock again, the other still moving slowly in and out of his arse.
"I'm what? Oh, God." The groan that ripped from his throat surprised her, since she didn't expect it for another few minutes.
She reached for the dildo again and held it up before him, her fingers still massaging his opening. "I'm going to strap this on and fuck you with it," she told him, letting her nipples slide over his back. "Have you ever done that before?"
He stiffened. "What? No, God, of course not. Are you– I mean– okay. God." He moaned again, his head falling down to cradle in his arms over the back of the sofa as he began to relax and loosen around her fingers, and Lavender allowed herself a small smile. Men were so easy, really.
She pulled back and murmured a few wandless spells, Summoning the harness from the cupboard, fastening it around her hips, hooking the dildo into it and coating it with lubricant, all while gently rubbing circles over Roger's back and pausing occasionally to murmur filth in his ear about how wet she was, how much he turned her on and how he was going to come his brains out in a few minutes. He only sagged forward further, pushing back against her. She kneeled behind him and guided the head of the dildo into his cleft. It was a thin one, for his first time, and not too long. Really, he would have nothing to complain about, even if he was able to remember his name when she was done.
"Roger," she purred over his shoulder as she leaned into him, and he gasped, raising his head to glance back at her, his face flushed and his eyes dark. "I'm going to fuck you now." The dildo pushed inside him an inch, and she felt his thighs tense. "Shhh," she whispered, rubbing his back with her free hand. "Do you feel that? This is just how I'd feel if you were fucking me, you know. This is what all the women you've ever fucked have felt, your hard cock inside them like this, filling them up." She slid in further, feeling the resistance yield a bit as he moaned again, one hand falling down to grasp his dick. "This is what it feels like to get fucked," she whispered fiercely, seating herself fully and gasping a bit as the textured base of the dildo scraped lightly over her clit.
Roger didn't answer, but he was breathing heavily, his cock thick between his fingers and his hips pushing back to meet her as she began to thrust.
"This is how werewolves fuck," she added, a smile tugging at her lips, and he arched his back at that, groaning her name. "Do you like that idea, a werewolf ravaging you like this?" She shifted her hips and tried to angle the dildo a bit lower. It was always a bit difficult to tell, without the benefit of sensation in the phallus, but if she just moved a little bit to the right –
"Oh God," he shouted suddenly. "Oh, okay. Okay. God, what are you doing? What are– oh my God."
She smiled. There it was.
"Shh." She soothed him again, pressing her palm flat over his shoulder blades and fucking in harder. His cheek mashed into the side of the sofa and he was moaning shamelessly now, the muscles of his arms, back and thighs pulled tight as he absorbed each of her thrusts, jerking himself furiously and gasping at her to do it, do it, God, fuck, just do it. "Can you come for me," she whispered, biting at the back of his neck, "just like you would if you were inside me? Come on, Roger. Fill me up. Make me dirty, Roger, come on..."
He groaned around her name and shuddered, and she watched over his shoulder as come filled his fist and trickled down his arm. His entire body convulsed, and she felt him clench around the dildo, shaking and gasping.
"Wait," she ordered him, grinding hard against the base of the dildo herself now and digging her fingernails in to his back. "Just... wait. Almost... Oh. Oh, yeah." Pleasure shot up her spine and exploded behind her eyes, her cunt throbbing and sliding wetly against the harness, and she collapsed over his back, panting. She slid the dildo out slowly, letting him push against her at his own pace, and then she unhooked the harness and rose to her feet, Banishing it all to the disinfectant cupboard. She spelled herself clean and dressed in her outfit again before Roger had even raised his head.
He flopped over onto his back eventually and gazed at her, a look of wonder on his face. "You," he began. "Okay. Yeah. Do you always...? I mean. Just."
"Only for very special customers," she purred, giving him a sultry smile. "Remember: I have extremely low standards when it comes to men." Her eyes narrowed just as his widened.
"I... oh. Well, I didn't mean..." He coughed.
"Time's up, Davies," she said briskly, tossing his trousers at him and standing by the door, hands on her hips.
He fumbled into them, tripping over himself, and when he finally joined her at the door, he looked down at her sheepishly.
"I wouldn't ask your wife to try that on you," she said when he opened his mouth to speak, and he clamped it shut, dropping his head. "She might get suspicious."
He couldn't open the door quickly enough after that, mumbling a Goodnight to her and racing down the hall and back out into the club, and Lavender let the door close with a satisfied smirk.
Lavender Brown, after all, was not a slut. Not really, at least, and not for men like that.
She wandered back over to the sofa and rummaged through the cushions for a moment before pulling out the contents of Roger's pocket, gathered earlier: fifty – no, eighty! – Galleons, and a simple gold wedding band. She dropped it all into her pouch, smiled to herself and sauntered out of the room.