The bouncer, who Harry swore could have had some troll blood in him, eyed him and smiled knowingly. Harry, sure that he had been caught, flinched. "Looking for love in all the wrong places?" leered the bouncer. Harry flushed and quickly headed to the bar, sidling along the tables in which girls donning elaborately decorated lingerie swung nimbly on poles, their heels kicking Galleons into the air which skidded on the floor and landed at the feet of men who picked them up and tossed them onto the tables again. There was one particular table he had a hard time squeezing past; the girl had dark tresses, wore a fox mask and frilly red panties, and was in a scruffy wizard's lap while the wizard, chuckling appreciatively with a goblet of fire whiskey in his hand, had not been inclined to move. Harry managed to reach the bar unharmed, although slightly unruffled. He sat on an stool and watched as an elderly man, presumably the bartender, polish glasses, realization dawning on his face. "So what can I do you for?" the man asked gruffly. He looked at Harry strangely as Harry was grinning at him. So I don't have to entice a stripper after all! Harry was thinking with relief. All I have to do is ask the bartender a few questions. No problem. "I'll have a butterbeer," he said promptly.
The bartender eyed him warily. "A Squib drink?"
Harry suddenly felt foolish. "Er, I mean…" he scanned the list of drinks they had to offer; he had no idea what any of them were, with the exception of fire whiskey, which he didn't care for at that particular moment. "Er, what would you recommend?"
"For you? A Castrated Thestral," the bartender said. And then he turned his back to Harry and busied himself with preparing the aforementioned alcoholic beverage.
As Harry waited for his drink, his eyes traveled over to the stage. He couldn't help but be impressed. They were spectacular, a flotilla of graceful swans. He hurriedly turned away, cheeks reddening, just as one of the performers had thrown her brassiere into the audience, where a long-haired whelp caught the undergarment with a smirk. Harry instead watched several bottles fly off the shelves they had rested upon, uncork themselves, tip over, and pour their contents into a single beaker with the bartender conducting the whole process with a lazy flick of the wand, the end result being a bubbling black liquid that Harry found unappealing. As he grudgingly accepted the drink with a reluctant thanks, a roar of cheering and applause suddenly rang in Harry's ears; Harry assumed the grand finale was over and risked a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm it. The dancers were now graciously accepting the tangible kindnesses that came their way-in other terms, money, and lots of it. Some were now chatting amiably with the customers, as if they had been working in the office all day and had decided to take a coffee break.
"That'll be three Galleons," said the bartender, tapping the counter for attention.
"Oh, what? Sure." Harry fished several coins out of his pockets and dropped them into the bartender's waiting palm. He took a small sip of his Castrated Thestral, gagged, and coughed; the drink was bittersweet and burned his throat. He hastily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, as casually as he could, "So…nice night."
"It's technically morning," replied the bartender.
Harry felt stupid. "Nice morning, then."
"I s'pose," said the bartender.
"So how long have you worked here?" asked Harry nonchalantly.
"Not very long," answered the bartender.
"Well, I was thinking about getting a job here," Harry invented. "Is there anything I should know about before I apply?"
The bartender considered this question for a second. "Well, you should know we don't sell butterbeer here. It's pretty much cheap plonk to us."
Harry's cheeks reddened again. "I was thinking something more serious."
"No drinks on the house," offered the bartender unhelpfully. "No drinking on the job. Only paying customers can use the bathrooms. And don't mess with the dancers."
"That's all?" asked Harry.
"S'all I can think of," said the bartender, turning towards another customer, a small, balding man wearing a fur cloak. Harry waited fifteen minutes for the balding man to order a Nicholas Flamel before he asked the bartender, "So you don't have any other extra responsibilities? Nothing in particular that you have to watch out for?"
The bartender looked at him irritably. "The cabinet," he said, jerking his head towards it. "Filled with antique wineglasses. Not allowed to use them, they're just for display."
"Oh," said Harry, disappointed. "Well, I'll pick up an application next time."
"If you ask me," advised the bartender, "those dancers would know stuff I wouldn't. I've only worked here for a week or so. Filling in for a nephew o' mine whose got dragon pox, he'll be back by tomorrow. Most o' 'em, the dancers that is, have been here for months, years. So why don't you go ask one of 'em?"
Harry was mortified. Back to square one, he thought miserably. "Ok, thanks." He slowly got off of his stool and walked numbly to an empty table, where he plunked himself down in defeat. His hands grew clammy and his mouth grew dry. His stomach was in knots. He glanced uneasily around; everyone else looked as if to be having a good time. The music grew livelier and seemed to mock him with each note. He found the exotic dancers with their animal-themed masks and their scanty clothing formidable and menacing all of a sudden and began sweating in his seat, wondering why him. No, Harry was definitely not in his element.
One particular dancer, sporting a flamingo headdress and sitting nearest him-two tables away and in the company of a smug-looking gentleman sipping his daiquiri-gave him a dazzling smile, revealing white, razor-sharp fangs. A vampire. Harry shuddered and quickly looked away, his heart thumping loudly. How, oh how did he get himself into these situations-?
Come on, it's not that bad, said voice in the back of his head that sounded uncannily like Hermione. You are surrounded by drunken, horny men and beautiful women. Nothing you can't handle. Get a grip. Harry took a deep breath, steeling himself. He had to locate the Horcrux. To do that, he would need an informant. The informant would have to be an….exotic dancer. Okay. Now, to get information from an informant, he would have to manipulate/bribe/blackmail/beg and/or convince said informant. To do that, he would have to…
Call for a lap dance. He felt himself panicking; how would he go about doing that? Simply request for someone? Should he exuberantly announce it or jingle his coin pouch pointedly? Oof. That didn't sound right, like an implied euphemism. Get your mind out of the gutter, he upbraided himself. What's the point? We're stuck in one, replied another voice in his head.
He braced himself for the worse and with a trembling hand, was just about to unclip his bum bag from his belt (Hermione had insisted they wear the ridiculous things because they were practical and "sooo adorable") and call to attention an…
Exotic dancer was coming his way. She was small and slight with long, tousled blonde hair and wore a sequined purple mask with a matching elephant headdress and skimpy rhinestone-encrusted lingerie. She nodded towards him and got up on the table.
Harry sat, frozen, his eyes glued to her every move. She danced with a strange quietude and elegance this tawdry Mardi Gras hellhole did not possess. She was lithe in her movement and twirled serenely, the pole augmenting her beauty and poise. She was intimate, but not repugnantly so. Harry was entranced, and wondered vaguely whether this girl was at least part veela.
When she neared him, she would reach out her slender fingers and touch his hair, a part of his face, a hand, until without thinking Harry grasped those slender fingers and pulled her off the table. She straddled him and caressed his face lightly; Harry's mind was reeling. He forgotten why he was here, what he was supposed to do. The only thing that was on his mind was this masked beauty and how she aroused all sorts of feelings in him…
She leaned in, lips inches away from his. Harry closed the distance between them with a kiss. He had intended it to be a peck; a pressing of lips, but apparently this girl knew what she was doing, he thought, as her tongue worked its way into his mouth and collided with his. Harry's senses were screaming with pleasure; what a bloody fantastic kiss…sultry…passionate…so wrong yet so right…
And as she trailed soft, sensual kisses onto his neck to the side of his face to his ear, Harry heard a groan escape his lips. She paused here, near his ear, gripping Harry by the lapels, and whispered, "We need to talk."
Harry looked at this masked beauty straight in the eye for the first time and saw two pale orbs staring back at him. "L-Luna?" he spluttered.