Disclaimer: Nothing of which you recognize is mine and belongs to JK Rowling, and all that you do not is.
It wasn't frequent that Scabior and his band of miscreant snatchers had the opportunity to take part in ordinary comforts, as warm baths and hot food were few and far between in a profession that called for a lot of camping and running. Even with magic, their tents were never quite warm enough, the food just bearable enough to eat, and time to themselves was a luxury they couldn't afford, with on the hour taboo surveillance added to their duties. But hygiene and nourishment weren't the only forms of physical satisfaction they sought; female companionship was scarce, that is, when it wasn't bought, or for some, taken.
Payment was delegated to them as the new Ministry saw fit, and it was meager and bordered on illegal (in regards to the old Ministry's Wizarding Worker's Compensation laws). They lived mainly off of commission, which was dependent on several factors, such as, whether they filled that month's quota, the importance and price of those brought to the Ministry, and if they were liable for any significant structural or property damages (usually incurred by the werewolf Fenrir Greyback and the occasional sloppy snatcher). Contradictory to what the Ministry made them out to be in the Daily Prophet and the rumors that spread throughout the alarmed wizarding public, they weren't uneducated savages.
Not entirely, Scabior snorted darkly. He found himself enjoying his leading position among the snatchers, though it was admittedly stressful and the workload was, at times, overwhelming. Most of his lot were amiable, who followed orders without much complaint and knew their way around a wand well enough to fit the job description. Though they weren't the Ministry's finest or brightest, they all had a personal stake in taking on this job, and he knew that whatever the reason, they were all in it for the gold, and as such would take his lead.
The last delivery his lot had taken to the Ministry had proven fruitful, and after a meeting with Dolores Umbridge (that left him feeling filthier than any of the sordid misdeeds of his past) he was city-bound for the first time in months. He was handed a new assignment, of what particulars he wasn't certain, but meetings with Umbridge were never met with much certainty, and clarification was not to be asked from her directly. Instead he was permitted temporary leave from snatching on foot with his men; he would delegate orders and see to it that they were brought to completion, while working on this unusual assignment. For the time being, he was on a "need to know basis", and would await further instruction via Yaxley's owl.
For the time being, he and his crew settled into town, choosing on the unassuming Winking Hippogriff Inn, the golden hippogriff on the wooden sign making it creak as it shook out its wings and rolled its eyes around. It was apparent by the layer of dust coating the entire establishment that it had not seen as much traffic as of late, and as the small group trudged in, exhausted from their travels and apparating, the aged innkeeper jumped up to accommodate them with hot beef stew and ales, and assign them rooms.
As they sat at around a long table on benches, hunched over their bowls, and talking loudly, Greyback grunted and turned his face to Scabior, who was slurping at his stew.
"How long are we here for?"
"Why? Thinkin' on quittin' out on us, are you?"
"What, an' miss out on the day you fuck up an' Umbridge has your guts for garters, an' gives me my rightful position as Alpha on this team?"
"She'd give you a position, all right," Scabior spat out and the others chuckled, "Besides, that'll never 'appen; I don't fuck up, Yaxley put me in charge on account of tha', otherwise 'e'd've put you. And unless I'm mistaken, Umbridge 'as given me full reign over our crew, so, you'll do as you're told."
Greyback sneered in response but said nothing else, his mangy fingers digging into the wooden tabletop, leaving scratches.
Breaking the tense silence that followed, one snatcher, Zachariah, a tall lanky fellow dressed in fur-lined coat and hunting hat, piped up, "We passed a brothel on th' way 'ere, up th' road, called 'Black Hat' or summat."
"'Black Cat Cabaret', I 'member the meowin' sign! Think I'll go take a gander there m'self tonight, lads," another snatcher, Antoine replied, smoothing out his hoodie sleeves and folding his fingers over his chest.
"Now now, don't go spendin' all your earnin's in one place, boys," Scabior stood up and stepped over the bench, nodding to the innkeeper who had begun clearing the table, "though if they charge by th' minute, you migh' be in luck." He grinned as they jeered at his retreating form, taking two steps at a time up the stairs and to his room, where a bath awaited him.
….
Scabior peeled off his weather worn leather coat and kicked off his boots as the tub filled, steam rising up and tickling his face. He unbuttoned his vest and untied the scarf bound to his neck as he peered into the mirror, bringing a hand to rub the stubble on his chin. As he finished undressing, his clothes forming a pile at his bare feet, the faucet shut itself when the water level reached the right height.
Lowering himself by his arms, he winced and exhaled as his body contacted the scalding hot water, his muscles unconsciously tensing and un-tensing as he settled himself down. Leaning his head against the edge of the tub, Scabior released a sigh as he let the heat seep into him, melting away the constant cold he had grown accustomed to with life as a snatcher. Stretching out, Scabior decided that he would take as long as he pleased with his bath, and fully intended to enjoy himself on this unfettered evening, untying his unruly wavy hair and rubbing a hand through his scalp.
….
Stepping in from the chilly air, immediately the men were hushed as an invisible warming calm enveloped them at the velvet entrance of the Black Cat Cabaret, and Scabior felt a knowing smirk tug at the corners of his lips.
"Keep your wits about you," Greyback muttered, closing the door behind them and holding up the rear of the group.
They had rules hanging on the foyer wall, namely a requirement of maintaining a sense of propriety and good behavior in order to participate in all of the varying enjoyments to be had. A failure to acquiesce to their expectations alerted their extensive security measures, and meant a permanent ban from the estate upon immediate removal, at the hands of staff or the witches themselves.
No sooner had the newcomers started to focus their weary eyes on the many shapes and flavors the Black Cat Cabaret had to offer that their view was obscured by a very solid, and very beautiful, blonde. Manicured hands on her corset laced waist and teetering on dangerous looking spiked heels, she seemed quite the force to be reckoned with.
"Welcome, gentlemen," the blonde drawled, her blue eyes boring into each of theirs in turn, "to Black Cat Cabaret. In accordance with our security enchantments, and as our regulations stipulate, I will be requiring your name and an address of which you mean to keep residence for the remainder of this evening." She mindlessly gestured toward a floating scroll of parchment and emerald quill at her side. With practiced lips and a roll of her eyes, she continued her entrance speech, "Your compliance is much appreciated by myself and the staff, and we bid you a pleasant evening."
"One at a time, lads," the snatchers anxiously shuffled behind Scabior to form a queue, while their leader rolled his kohl lined eyes and stepped forward.
"Name?" She had shifted her weight to one foot now, arms crossed over her sparkling ruby sequined-corseted chest, the tops of her creamy breasts rising and falling with each impatient sigh.
"Scabior."
The quill twitched, hovering just above the scroll.
"Scabior?" The blonde raised a brow, "that it?"
"Well, yeah. Just 'Scabior,'" he replied, brushing the sides of his coat off of his plaid covered hips and placing his hands on them defensively. They watched the quill scratch his name onto the parchment, where it glowed for a moment before turning emerald.
"Pleased to meet you, 'Just Scabior'," another roll of her eyes, "and where will you be sleeping tonight?"
"At The Winking 'ippogriff, just up the road."
She nodded and the quill sealed it away into the scroll with an emerald flourish. "Next."
….
Scabior made his way deeper into the foyer of the Cabaret entrance, his eyes sweeping the main salon from his position at the threshold. There weren't many wizards occupying the bar at the far end of the salon, where a bartender stood resting his palms on the wooden top, a pink bowtie at his neck. Looking toward the main stage at the opposite end were many small round tables with large plush chairs arranged beside them, with cushioned booths lined along the sides of the salon, all high backed and rich velvet. Petite witches outfitted in matching outfits snaked around the tables, carrying silver trays with drinks from the bar on their shoulders, all bright eyes and warm smiles.
Movement in the curtain dragged his eyes from a particularly leggy waitress placing an order, where he spotted an eye peeking through a break in the scarlet. His boots took him over the threshold and as he strode to the bar, the eye vanished.
"Anything to drink?" the bartender asked when Scabior approached the bar.
"Firewhiskey," Scabior shifted onto a stool, his knees and boots knocking into the bar. "When do the girls come on?"
"Very soon now," the bartender replied as he placed a coaster of a hissing black cat on the bar and set a glass of Firewhiskey on it.
No sooner had the glass touched his lips that the lights in the salon dimmed, and conversations diminished and disappeared, anticipation rising with the spotlight that was cast upon the stage. A tall blonde man took to the spotlight, wearing elegant black dress robes with white gloves adorning his hands.
"Ladies and gentlemen, allow me the pleasure of welcoming you all here this lovely evening to The Black Cat Cabaret!" The audience applauded, grins shining up at him as he smiled brightly back; Scabior laughed inwardly as he spotted some of his snatchers raising their mugs of ale to him, at which he nodded and raised his own.
"We know these are dark times," his eyes glanced over the snatchers and held Scabior's gaze for a moment; some of the more inebriated members of the audience made known their disfavor with the announcer, with those in close proximity to Greyback quieting down at his low growl, "but forget the misfortunes lying outside our doors, and allow yourselves to enjoy our first performance for this evening, I promise she will take right good care of you," he turned to his side and gestured to the curtain, a steady drumming sounding, rising with the anticipation. "Now please welcome, if you will, our lovely and lively Mademoiselle Scarlet Derrière!"
He backed away as the curtains parted at the center of the stage, and revealed a woman, dressed in black, save for her smirking red mouth.
….
With Miss Derrière's performance concluded and the curtains closing, Scabior found himself standing and placing a generous amount of coin on the bar in the aftermath of applause and loud cheering. As the bartender approached to collect his payment, Scabior stopped him before he could retrieve change. "Who do I see to about introducin' me to Mademoiselle Scarlet?"
The sides of the bartender's mouth twitched and he looked at Scabior knowingly, "Madame Pamela can have arrangements made for a proper introduction, she's the owner of Black Cat, and she makes note of every guest at the cabaret entrance." Scabior nodded his gratitude and placed more coins on the bar.
Always good to make nice with the barkeep.
As Scabior stepped away from the bar and looked around the salon, the intimidating blonde from earlier appeared at the far end towards the foyer. "Madame Pamela?"
Her brow arched and a smile grew on her face as he moved towards her. "See anything you like, Mr. Scabior?"
Scabior glanced back to the stage, "I'd like to be introduced to Mademoiselle Scarlet."
Madame Pamela nodded, a thin finger tracing a thin gold necklace at her elegant neck, "It just so happens that she is available this evening. I am certain Scarlet would be delighted to make your acquaintance."
….
Madame Pamela took him up a winding staircase, all cheers and music from the salon dying down with each ascending step. The walls were adorned with many paintings depicting extravagantly dressed witches in luxurious homes, and some in more erotic displays. The witches all giggled and waved at him as he passed by, whispering to one another, one witch even jumping into other paintings to keep up with him. He grinned and winked in return, which made her sigh dramatically and fan herself.
They stopped at a large white door, Scabior narrowly avoiding knocking Madame Pamela down as he enjoyed the attention the painted witches were giving him. She knocked three times as a soft voice called out, "Come in!" Opened the door she gestured him inside.
"Evenin' Pamela." Scarlet was sat at a heart shaped satin chair dressed in a simple cream colored corset and panty, a red lace garter matching the rouge on her lips and the red of her heeled feet at her waist and keeping her beige nylon stockings in place. Facing a mirror as she took a large puff and blotted her face with powder, she was still flushed from her performance. She stopped mid-blot as she took in the figures reflected in her mirror, her green eyes widening as she turned in excitement, "And who is this handsome gentleman?"
"He has requested an introduction, it appears that he is very taken with you after your performance. I'll leave you two alone," Pamela smiled and turned on her heel, closing the door behind her.
Scabior stepped forward, "'ello, Mademoiselle," he picked at his scarf and took in his surroundings. The room they were in was very large and cozy, covered in velvet draperies and furnished with floral printed couches; it smelled of something sweet and woodsy; he felt himself becoming drowsy but giddy at the same time.
She smiled warmly, "You liked my performance?" She turned back to her mirror, resuming her blotting but keeping her eyes on him all the while.
He was tracing a picture frame, one of several lined about on her mantel, "It was well intriguin', I'd give it three out of five broomsticks in 'Witch Weekly'."
She frowned, "Three out of five? What was it missing?"
Scabior smirked, shrugging halfheartedly, "More nudity always 'elps, though I'm a man who likes t' unwrap his own presents," his eyes sparkled.
"All that were left were my knickers!"
"Hmm, may be so, I s'pose you could always improve your performance with somethin' more… personal. Intimate."
"And I suppose you could help me with that?" It was her eyes that sparkled now.
He leaned against the mantel, the fire crackling beneath it warming his legs. "I'm a very busy man, Mademoiselle, but perhaps I can fit you into my schedule."
"How kind of you," she waved her wand across her lips, he watched her mouth as it grew redder and shined with gloss, looking up at her eyes when her lips turned into a smile. "You may call me Scarlet, but what may I call you?"
"Maybe you've 'eard of me," Scabior took an interest in his nails, spying her from the corner of his eye for any sign of recognition, of surprise, or maybe fear.
Instead he was met with her blinking reflection, batting her dark lashes at him as a bright, apologetic smile blossomed across her rouged lips.
"I'm 'Scabior, 'ead of the Snatchers'!" he turned to her, his hand gesturing to the red band tied to his arm.
A pause. "Ohh," she nodded, turning in her seat, "of course you are."
Scabior frowned as he plopped himself into a flowery seat, feeling himself sinking into it.
She uncrossed her legs and stood, and Scabior noticed how small she was now, off the stage. She slowly made her way over to where he sat.
"Have you come for a snatch?"
He grinned, his blue eyes glittering with mischief. "You could say that."
She paused between his legs, gently nudging his boots together with her high-heeled foot, never breaking from his eyes. She eased her knees on either side of where he sat and climbed onto his lap. Straddling him, she brought a small hand to his broad chest, fingering the embroidery on his vest, while she rested her head in the other, leaning on her elbow against the arm of the chair.
"Then have you come here on business, or pleasure?" her gaze dipped from his eyes to his lips and back.
He leaned his face forward, his hooded eyes looking deeply into her own, his hot Firewhiskey breath on her face. A hand snaked around her hip and rested on her ass, the other brushed the hair off of her shoulder, his thumb caressing her jaw. "I think we both know the answer to that, love."