Outfit.

Quinn leaned on the counter of Reducto Records, unaware (and unconcerned) by a customer that handed Emmy their money before giving her blonde freeloading friend  a dirty look. Quinn was still unbothered. As the small bell above the door rang as the wizard exited, she flicked through the piles of paper and rolled her eyes. Job hunting was boring. Jobs were boring. The past couple of summers had been dominated by internships and partying with Quidditch stars - but had they materialised into a job? Had they doxydung. And, with pressure from Papa McAvoy to find fulltime work, the time was nigh to sign a contract of employment. Snore.

"I mean," Quinn murmured, holding up an application form for Madame Malkin's. "Do you really think a witch would want me giving her advice for a white wedding in Godric's Hollow?" She raised her eyebrows, trying her best to pull a face of hospitable interest. To no luck. Granted, Quinn had tidied up in the years since Hogwarts - her hair was cleaner, a bit tidier, her clothes a bit cleaner. But she was till the lout through and through, and much preferred a pair of trainers to some scarlet dress robes.

She ruffled through papers once more, jumping onto the counter and sitting down with both legs folded. A couple of records fell to the floor and Quinn didn't even bother to charm them back to their shelf. It was fine. Emmy's assistant or whatever would do it.

"Like, what can I actually do?" She began to laugh. It was a serious question but the answers were all ridiculous. "Drinking? Dancing? I'm a good dancer, I've got good balance." Quinn noted down her ramblings as if seriously considering an occupation as a dancer.

"Make-up, I'm alright with make-up. I was okay Herbology. I correctly identified a dragon during the Tetrawizard from the stands. Oh, and how could I forget?! Blowjo - " Her train of thought was interrupted as another customer entered the shop. Quinn stopped herself midspeech and grimaced comically. That was it. Her full list of talents done right there.

Behind the counter, a denim-clad thigh bumped purposefully, lovingly into the one beside it, warning Quinn not to get her sacked before they found the other witch a job. “You’ll really love this one, it’s brilliant,” she assured, unnecessarily loud. “It’s that sort of 3 a.m. sorcery that goes wonderfully with kebabs and scaring your neighbor’s cat, you know? Long night at the pub, swan dive onto the sofa... I dance to it in my knickers all the time.”

Whether this testimony did more harm or good remained a mystery. Emmylou salvaged the transaction with a Carter smile. The wizard gave a stiff upturn of his mouth— and was that a blush?— and waited for the register to spit back his change, which Lou dolloped it into his hand while slim brown paper and twine wound itself neatly around his purchase. Emmylou flicked her wand in completion, offered the record over like a bouquet, and mentally ushered the wizard out of the shop as if she’d Imperio’ed him.

“Seriously, even your cleavage can’t save me if someone writes an owl to the owner,” she complained mildly, not sounding particularly agitated. It was more of an observation.

Despite her desire to stay employed, she turned and hoisted herself up onto the counter with a leery, charming grin, as if to affirm her undying love for Quinn. “At least pretend you work here in the meantime."

Maybe she could?

Lou tapped her wand tentatively at the top of a copy of Quinn’s resume, which they were ‘reworking’ while searching adverts and bits of parchment they’d collected from boards in cafes. She traced it down a-ways, to the space where qualities like musical would be appreciated. Quinn liked to dance and did it plenty when the pair of them went out; she wasn’t shy about singing, really.

“Malkin’s is a lot edgier lately. It wouldn’t be all brides and kids… but one bride is too many for you.” Emmylou broke into laughter, withdrawing her wand and scooting over as Quinn joined her on the counter. She watched the cascade of records mildly. “And that older witch keeps way too many pins and needles around.” Records, at least, were flat and round.

“If you get hired as a stripper, I’m taking you on as a roommate and charging you an arm and mermaid’s tail in rent,” she warned, summoning the records one at a time, so that they flew into the air like slow-motion juggling balls. “I won’t go mushy on you... but don’t sell yourself short.” She glanced at Quinn, gauging. “If you want to dance, dance-- it’s a good story— but it’s not all you can do!” Seriously, they were friends because they were both brilliant. “Even if the tips are killer.”

The records began to dance, in tune with the song that filtered in softly over the speakers.

She burst into laughter again, but cut it short nearly as quick as Quinn did her words. Lou jumped off the counter and around in a graceful guilt, reaching for the records— one, two, three— as they flew into her arms. She hugged them to her chest, beaming at the customer in greeting. “Let me— us— know if you need anything!”

She looked back at Quinn with sudden inspiration, throwing open her arm (the one with the records) in the general direction of her friend. “Lipwitch[1].” Emmylou was a genius. And she’d remembered the poster she'd been seeing all over lately. Sleek and appealing. “They’re hiring for a new outlet in Diagon Alley.” Like Quinn said, she was good at makeup. Her brows rose, as if to say, am I right or am I right? “You can keep the oral fixation."

1.	Permission from Sly!

"A stripper!?" Quinn cackled, putting both hands in the air as if surrendering to a mob of ten thousand angry goblins. "I've put on nine pounds since Christmas, they'll be paying me to put my clothes back on." She grinned, tapping her fuller-than-normal stomach. It was true - the endless pumpkin pie and pigs-in-blankets had taken their toll, but Quinn was a tall girl who carried it relatively well. And besides, who actually cared? All a wizard wanted was a witch with giant-bearing hips, or, something like that...

As Emmylou opened her arms carrying the records, Quinn merely took her wand and silently flicked it several ways. The LPs in question were averted from the blonde on the counter, swishing left and right before clattering on the floor. Trust Emmy to expel the only things in her hand when she was excited - wasn't she supposed to be the clever(er) one?

Lipwitch wasn't such a bad shout. But she was more a trowel-it-on-and-see-what-happens kinda gal. Plus, all those hours having to watch her Ps and Qs? And constant smiling? Well groomed? The more she thought about it, the more she was panicking.

"I dunno, man..." she muttered, trying to bury her head into some more application forms. "Lipwitch is a nice company, they expect everyone to be nice and I've got to be polite and courteous and not cover absolutely everything in lipstick and glitter."

The days of black eyes and smudges of gold were gone with her lacklustre NEWT results, but Quinn could already see herself creating mini-McAvoys with ripped tights and long sexual histories.

"Besides, what would I actually be doing there?" she asked, still ignoring the customers that sauntered into Reducto. "I just feel I'd be better at something a bit... muddier."

"What other sort of dancer makes enough to pay rent?” Lou laughed, her eyes falling to Quinn’s stomach. They flew back up with a shake of her head. “Please, most men love a little softness.” She always got the most compliments for her curviest bits— mostly her backside. “They won’t be looking at your stomach, anyway.” Unless Quinn had forgotten that she had thighs, hips, and tits to keep them busy.

Not that Emmylou thought her best friend should disrobe for galleons. There were plenty of things she could do brilliantly.

“They’ve got some edgy girls in there. I’ve seen them slipping in through the construction. A bloke, too.” If he’d been the polished, the clean-cut sort, there’d also been girls in trendy dark lipstick, girls with fantastically wild hair, and would-be models in their grunge-y off-duty uniforms. From her glittery girlhood to the smoother, still-vibrant post-Hogwarts version, Quinn could surely make it work. Lou could easily see her hawking statement makeup to a modern London girl. “One nearly barreled me over—” Luckily, the Carter genes had favored quick footing. “I thought she was a dementor until I saw the mauve lipstick.” The cloak and bag had been huge, black, designer. If their styles had different, Lou would certainly have trusted the stranger's taste in moisturizer. “She didn’t have pores. Think of the freebees you’d bring home.”

They’d probably outdo a stripper’s tips, even, when one considered the price of a good mascara. It was expensive, being a girl.

“You’d give witches confidence,” she shrugged, picking up one of the adverts. “And a few uptight ones some personality.” She held a newspaper portrait of a sullen-looking realtor. Definitely not the right job for Quinn. But maybe she could be the woman’s life coach, or stylist, or… paid friend. She was brilliant when she didn’t charge, too, even if Lou was biased.

She hopped off the counter, floated toward the ever-evolving mess. “Ben might be able to get you a job cleaning the stalls,” she countered, a little wicked as she grinned over her shoulder. Probably not the sort of muddy she was after. “Maybe you could run one of those mechanical bulls at a bar. Or…” She picked up a record (one of the same ones that had been tossed about a moment prior). “Quidditch PR?” That might require credentials.

Quinn nodded slowly, as if taking in the words of a wise old sage atop a mountain sanctuary. It wasn't far off. Quinn's counsel for the last ten years or so had relied on Emmylou. She'd navigated the only McAvoy daughter through various social pitfalls: sleeping with the Flickwick brother, envying girls like Waker Nolan, even kissing Lou's cousin herself. And still, here she was, providing the same stellar advice that she always did and proving once again that she was the best friend she ever was (as if Lou even needed to). Quinn smiled.

"Well, Lipwitch is a start," she responded, trying her hardest to be optimistic. "I've got no experience but whatever, I'll pop in and get an application parchment and dazzle them with my charm and my grace and my wisdom." She elongated the words dramatically, ruffling fingers through her blonde locks and flicking them left to right. She would've been a dead ringer for the likes of Dolly St. James if it wasn't for the mud on her knees (and the rest).

Quinn continued to nod at the confidence memo. And the personality. For too long, Lou and Quinn had been stuck with girls who had an iron wand up their backside - all uptight, all future prospects and all 'look at those girls flunking Quidditch flying again'. Yawn. Those girls had probably got themselves a nice little job at the Ministry, but who wanted to shuffle papers all day and get felt up by an Unspeakable by the coffee machine? Actually, that sounds quite sick.

She jumped from the counter too and leant against the wall, picking at her chipped nails.

"And Ben can get fucked if he thinks I'm cleaning a toilet," she laughed incredulously. Sure, she could get her hands dirty, but not Diagon Alley on a Saturday afternoon type of dirty. "And I ballsed the Quidditch PR thing up with my dad. He doesn't want me anywhere near players after I made a pass at Wiedman."

She didn't know what was more annoying - her father's response, or the fact the world-famous beater had turned her down.

"What are you doing tonight? Shall we go out?"

There were more concerning matters at stake. As always.

Charm, grace, and wisdom. “That definitely describes you,” Lou encouraged, a wicked grin emerging. “But really, they can’t all have the same look and mannerisms. You have to appeal to a wide audience if you’re selling makeup. Just add a bit of glitter, right? Work your way up the ladder to corporate…” Lou’s mouth raced ahead of her mind, but as the picture of Quinn McAvoy in a blazer and pencil skirt popped into her head, she knew 9 to 5 wouldn’t suffice. Not at this point in either of their lives. “Or…"

There had to be a good fit, somewhere.

Laughing, she shook her head. But there was an affirmation when she next opened her mouth. “Oh, he will.” Her brows rose and her smile redoubled. “When I’m not hanging with you.” That was a bit too much multitasking even for a brilliant Carter. Shagging her boyfriend and helping her friend fill out applications? “I’ve only got two hands.” And a wand. “He’d never make you clean the toilets, though.” Which might have been a tall tale. “Not human ones. The animals sort of go whenever they feel like it…”

There was another career to scratch off the list. It was dirty, but too dirty.

“Can he really blame, you, though? Has your dad seen Weidman’s face after three days without shaving?” Perfectly aged. “The Woolfolks own a ton of quidditch real estate. Maybe you could cozy up to one of them.” If they were toasted enough on a summer’s night with no curfew, they might start handing out jobs.

Tidying their perpetual witchy mess at a pace that seemed to match the chill music, Lou shrugged. “I was planning to whip my bra off as soon as I got out of here and back to my flat.” The damned things. “We could go for drinks, though. Have you been to Death & Co.? Margo might hire you! She’d love you, really.” Lou herself had thought about a job there, but two serving roles would have made her head spin at the moment. the Music and coffee balanced one another nicely and afforded her a night life. “Graveyard shift, maybe, so you can still get your drinks in beforehand.” Was it illegal, to show up to work just a little tipsy? They were young, she could mask it.