For Sophie

Word Count: 1806

Warning: mature and sexual content

Lavender sits in front of the mirror, her stomach twisting into knots. This is not the life she wants, and there's nothing she can do about it.

She pulls her honey-blonde curls back, twisting them into a neat pile on top of her head. Her hands instinctively reach for her concealer, desperate to hide the horrid scars that twist her flesh, but she immediately feels a hand on her shoulder. Lavender glances down, her stomach souring at the familiar sight of the long, yellowing, claw-like nails.

"You know the rules, girl," Greyback says with a smirk. "Be proud of my work."

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

The beast leans in, his hot, putrid breath washing over her. "Good girl," he says, reaching down and pinching her nipple roughly. "Otherwise I'd have to make sure you are very sorry indeed."

She's grateful that he doesn't linger for long. Greyback is gone within moments, and she is alone once again.

Lavender reaches for her perfume and applies it to her pulse points. Her hand trembles as she carefully applies her makeup.

Once, she had dreamt of being a Healer after Hogwarts. After that fateful battle at the castle, her dreams came crashing down. Voldemort is victorious, and the world has become a dark and twisted playground.

Greyback had found her beneath the rubble, and he had taken her. Sometimes Lavender wonders if she might have been better off dead. At least then she wouldn't be in this hellhole. Now she is one of Greyback's girls–more so than the other pretty girls kept in the brothel; Lavender wears his marks–and there is no escape for her.

She closes her eyes and leans back in her chair. Maybe this is the only life she's cut out for. No one has tried to rescue her, and she doubts anyone even misses her at all. Why would they? She's always been stupid, gossipy, annoying Lavender Brown. The rest of the world is better off without her.

Her pity party doesn't last long. There's a brief, sharp knock on her door–the signal that her client is waiting for her. In her line of work, there's no room for emotions. If she doesn't numb her pain, if a man sees even the fastest glimpse of weakness, she's as good as dead.

She keeps her head held high and pulls on a sheer robe, covering her bare body but leaving next to nothing to the imagination. No one is coming to save her. All she can do now is survive.

…

"Why am I not surprised that you have volunteered for this assignment?" Hermione asks with a roll of her eyes.

Cormac offers her a bright, cheeky grin. He holds his hand over his heart in faux offense. "Really, Hermione? You wound me."

He knows what she thinks of him; she has made that abundantly clear from the start. In her eyes, he is still the silly, ridiculous boy from three years ago. Truth be told, he hasn't given her much reason to think otherwise. Why should he waste his time trying to prove himself to her? Besides, it's more fun this way.

"Women's lives are at stake!" Hermione snaps. "Do you really think I'm going to just sit around and let you–"

"Not really your call, is it?" he interrupts. "Shacklebolt has already approved me for the job."

Hermione finds a new target for her hostility. She rounds on Kingsley, the rebellion's leader, her curls flying behind her. "Don't you think it's unwise to send someone like him on this mission?"

Cormac snorts and rolls his eyes. He folds his arms over his chest and leans back against the wall, lips quirking in amusement. This mission means the world to him. The fact that he can annoy his ex-fling is just a happy little bonus.

"He's the best for this," Kingsley says, shrugging his broad shoulders. "He isn't a prominent face of the rebellion. Someone like him could easily get in and out."

Hermione spares Cormac one last irritated glance. "Only because someone like him looks right at home in a brothel."

"Another wound," Cormac teases. "What did I ever do to earn your scorn?"

In place of an answer, Hermione pushes past him. She's always been a bit angry, but losing Harry and Ron seems to have pushed her over the edge. Cormac thinks that maybe he should lay off of her for a little while, but he never does.

He looks up at Kingsley, offering him a bright, toothy smile. "Right, then," he says, adjusting the collar of his shirt. "Should probably get going."

…

Lavender is relieved when the man rolls off of her. Her body is still slick with his sweat, but it doesn't make her want to puke the way it used to. This is her life now. It isn't pretty, but what else is there to do? Refusal leads to punishment. She's seen the girls around. Once, they had been beautiful and vibrant; now, they are little more than shells of themselves with their tongues cursed out of their mouths and their minds minds close to breaking from repeated torture.

She climbs out of bed, and the sheets begin to wash themselves. Everything will be nice and tidy by the time her next client arrives. It's a small comfort. The ones who run the brothel won't let the girls have their wands, but they make sure everything remains clean and hygienic.

As she walks, she limps. It isn't even noon yet, and she's already served half a dozen clients. There's something about her that men love. She is scarred and damaged, and fucking her seems to be some sort of twisted fetish. She hates it, but she's grown numb to it. She barely even notices when a man is on top of her. Each client seems to blur into the next, until she can't tell you anything about them. Did the last man have brown eyes or blue? Was he tall or short?

It doesn't matter. In the end, she is just a body to them. She'd learned quickly that she needs to regard them in the same way.

Just a body, not a savior. No one will come for her. She is completely alone.

Lavender stands before her dressing room mirror, dipping a washcloth in the basin of cold water before moving it over her bare skin. It doesn't help. She still feels filthy, and she knows nothing will ever get rid of it. No amount of hot water and scrubbing could ever erase the shame that pools in the pit of her stomach.

With a sigh, she returns the washcloth to the basin and takes a seat. Someone will come for her soon. She is the great Lavender Brown, the scarred freak, the tragic girl who was once beautiful. There will never be a shortage of men eager to bed someone more pathetic than themselves.

…

The brothel is a lot nicer than Cormac would have imagined. He stands in the front room, taking in the silver and white drapery and furniture. Everything is immaculate. He had expected something closer to a prison.

"Can I help you?" A blonde witch wearing too much makeup and showing too much cleavage hurries toward him.

"I'm looking for a girl."

The witch laughs. "Well, I would assume so," she says. "Diana should be ready. She's a greedy one, so she'll–"

"A specific girl," Cormac says.

This isn't the plan, but he doesn't care. Daphne's information–the only reason anyone in the resistance trusts her–has lead them to this brothel. No one had known of its existence prior to that, and it hadn't piqued his interest at all.

Not until she mentioned a certain someone working there.

"Curls," he says, clearing his throat. "Bit scarred up. Some pretty flower name."

"Lavender?"

"Yeah." It's so hard to keep the emotion from his voice. "Her."

After the battle was lost, no one had been able to search the ruins of the castle, but no one had heard from Lavender. In the end, she had been assumed dead. Cormac had always refused to believe it. He had hoped whenever there was no hope to be found. Daphne's information has given him something to believe in.

"Right this way, sir."

Cormac follows her upstairs, hardly able to believe his luck. Is it really possible he'll be reunited with the woman he loves more than anything else in this world?

"Price is not negotiable," the witch tells him. "You'll need to pay now, so we know there's no funny business."

Cormac barely even hears her. Lavender is so close and it makes his heart race. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the necessary coins. "Yeah, yeah," he says. "Take me to her."

…

"You're popular today," Diana says wistfully, sitting beside Lavender. "I saw the bloke. He's cute."

Lavender doesn't care. Men are all the same; all they want is a hole to slide into. She has a part to play, and she plays it so well.

She dabs a little perfume on her neck before making her way to her room. Taking a deep breath, she pushes the door open, and it takes all her self-control to not cry.

Cormac stands before her, tall and lean and grinning like a bloody idiot. For several moments, all Lavender can do is stare with her jaw slack. It can't be him. After all the years that have passed… He would have forgotten about her.

"It's me," he says, as though he can read her mind.

Tears sting her eyes, but she blinks them away as she lunges forward and wraps her arms around him. "How?" she manages.

He holds her close and kisses her. It feels like a lifetime has passed since she's felt his lips on hers, and she doesn't want him to move. It doesn't matter how much time has passed; he is hers, and she is his.

"I never stopped believing," he says before pulling out a bit of flesh-colored material from his pocket. Lavender thinks it might be an Extendable Ear; she and Parvati had contemplated buying a set from the Weasley twins. "All clear."

"What's happening?"

As if to answer her question, she hears a commotion downstairs. Cormac grins and wraps his arm around her. "They're apprehending Greyback," he tells her. "I would join them, but I have something more important to take care of."

"What?"

He kisses her forehead. "You. Now, come on. Let's go."

Lavender knows the nightmare isn't over. Even if she escapes, she will still have to go through hell in hopes of healing. It's terrifying, but, as Cormac holds her hand and leads her through the chaos, she thinks that maybe she can find her strength again.

At least she won't have to do it alone.