H/D fic - Inauspicious Beginnings (1/2)
H/D fic - Inauspicious Beginnings (1/2)
Author: l_morgan
Rating: R
Pairings: H/D (of course)
Summary: Sometimes two wrongs can make a right.
Disclaimer: Anything profitable belongs to J.K.
A/N: Set after the war. Spoilers for HBP.
Feedback and ConCrit is welcome! Special thanks to Islaofhope for her useful comments and to m_jadis for her careful beta and help at the end (all remaining errors are mine)! This story is complete and has been cross-posted shamelessly.
Warning: POV Switch between chapters 1 & 2
Chapter One
In one of the more secluded corners of the Leaky Cauldron, Seamus Finnigan beat his fist on the scarred table top, causing the pyramid of empty pint glasses to jolt dangerously.
“Watch it!” Ron shouted. “You almost brought the bloody thing down.”
Seamus swallowed a laugh and held up both hands. “You’re not going to believe what I heard last week from Zacharias Smith. Ron, Harry,” he said hurriedly, “you’re absolutely going to die. I can’t believe I just remembered it!”
Dean cast Seamus a warning look, but Seamus was too far gone for subtleties.
Harry smiled at Dean, though, he had to admit, he was curious as to what had Seamus so worked up. Truth be told, he hadn’t seen Seamus this excited since the Irish won the World Cup.
“So?” Ron asked as he helped the waitress unload their fourth round. “What’s so bloody important that you almost destroyed this, this...” He motioned to the misshapen structure at the center of the table. “...testament to our....”
“Intemperance?” Dean volunteered dryly.
Harry choked on his ale. “Do tell, Seamus,” he prompted, ignoring Ron’s baleful expression. “Did the Irish make the finals this year?”
“Hell no!” Seamus grabbed a fresh pint. “It’s way better than that!”
Harry glanced over at Dean; he frowned, however, when Dean refused to meet his eye.
“So, what is it?” Harry pressed. Given that Seamus and Dean seemed to be at odds, his curiosity was piqued all that much more.
“As I was saying,” Seamus began, enunciating clearly. “I ran into Zacharias Smith last week.”
“Wanker,” Ron muttered. Harry suppressed a grin.
“And he told me that Draco Malfoy - yes, you heard me, gentlemen - Draco Malfoy -”
“Of the West Essex Malfoys, you say?” Ron mocked; he tossed a crisp up in the air and caught in his mouth. “Of the lately of Azkaban Malfoys?”
“Leave it,” Harry warned.
“Yes, thank you, Harry.” Seamus took another drink. “Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted, Smith told me that Malfoy was working as a prostitute in some Muggle bar in London.”
“No!” Ron gasped.
“No.” Harry shook his head. “I don’t believe it.” He took a drink and glanced over at Dean who was staring into his ale as if looking into a pensieve.
Seamus shook his head, his mouth forming a crooked line. “I’m just telling you what I was told.”
“No way.” Ron grinned, his entire face flushed with delight. “In a Muggle bar? Malfoy?’
Hands trembling, Harry pushed his drink away. “And just who, exactly, told Smith?” he demanded, determined not to believe it and not sure why it mattered.
Seamus laughed and leaned forward, his face distorted through the wall of glass. “That’s just it -Smith was out with some Muggle friends when they ran across Malfoy at some manky bar - get this: Love’s Illusion. Smith actually hired him!” Seamus doubled over with laughter. “Can you even imagine?”
“No!” Harry snapped, even as he heard Ron agree.
As Ron’s and Seamus’ conjectures got more and more crass, Harry finished his drink. He didn’t think twice about reaching for Ron’s as well.
“But why would Malfoy do that?” Harry asked, disrupting Ron’s and Seamus’ nattering.
Ron shrugged. “Who cares? Dad said that the Ministry liquidated all of his assets after the war. He probably doesn’t have a choice.”
“Not all of his assets,” Seamus leered. “You know, I wouldn’t mind having Malfoy on his knees for about an hour - too bad Smith said he costs the moon.”
Harry blanched.
“Eww!” Ron squealed, picking up his empty glass and shooting Harry a dirty look.
“Get off it, Ron.” Seamus laughed. “Malfoy’s always had a pretty mouth - that is, when it wasn’t spouting all that death-eater crap. Isn’t that right, Dean?”
Dean shook his head without looking up. “Whatever you say, Finnigan.”
“Pretty or not...” Ron signaled the waitress to bring them another round, oblivious to the discord brewing at the table. “...if you do the deed, I never, ever want to hear details...” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “...unless, of course, there’s whips and chains involved.”
Over the next three weeks, the “Rumour” as it had come to be known in Harry’s mind, resurfaced three more times - once when Harry’d stopped in at the twins’ shop to take a look at the quarterly reports, once when he’d run into Colin Creevey outside of Florean Fortescue’s, and a third time when he’d met Hermione for lunch.
Zacharias Smith, it seemed, had been a busy man, as had Justin Finch-Fletchley, and, if the “Rumours” -plural, now - were true, Theodore Nott.
More often than he cared to admit, Harry imagined Malfoy in the positions that he’d heard shocked whispers of, or in the case of the twins, raucous laughter. It seemed that either Malfoy’s “clients” got off on hurting the one time Prince of Slytherin or else Malfoy simply got off on being hurt. Regardless, nothing that Harry’d heard thus far had anything to do with or looked anything like the ways that Harry himself wanted to touch his former nemesis.
Harry’s own fantasies of touching Malfoy, some stretching as far back as fourth year, had nothing to do with pain or humiliation - well, no one’s other than his own, he supposed, if they were to be found out. Besides, given that all of the touches that he and Malfoy had shared in reality had been designed to hurt, he figured that it was only natural that he’d wonder what it would be like to cajole, to comfort...to pleasure. He tried not to think how it blew holes in his theory that he’d never once had fantasies of hurting any of those people that he’d actually loved.
Unable to fake his way through another “If anyone deserves to be used and discarded like a dirty rag...” “But wouldn’t you like to be the one doing the discarding?” “Ewww!” three martini lunch with Ron and Seamus, Harry turned right instead of left and found himself walking away from Diagon Alley and heading deep into the heart of Muggle London. He told himself that he didn’t have a destination in mind and that he’d know where he was going only when he got there. As his trainers hit the sidewalk, with no hesitation whatsoever, he assured himself that he had no plan, no agenda. Well, one out of two wasn’t bad.
The “Love’s Illusion Night Club and Lounge” had once been an old factory. Dark and smoky, the main room was surprisingly quiet, with just the faintest trace of smooth jazz filtering through the air like a seductive promise.
Malfoy sat casually perched on a barstool, dressed in Muggle clothes. However, nothing else about Malfoy was casual, wearing, as he was, black dress pants and a white button down shirt made not of the oxford broad cloth that Harry favored, but rather something that looked alive against Malfoy’s opalescent skin. He was chatting to an older heavy set Muggle who was wearing a tweedy suit and holding a cane.
Even as Harry watched, the smoke filling his lungs, the stranger pulled out a pocket book and wrote out a check. From where he was standing, Harry couldn’t see the amount, but whatever it was, Malfoy seemed inordinately pleased.
Squealing, Malfoy clapped his hands, before extending his right one, palm up.
Something in Harry died as he watched the transaction.
Just then, the older man checked the time and glanced at the door.
Not wanting to be seen, Harry stepped hurriedly back into the shadows. He watched as Malfoy’s smile dimmed and he shook his head. His seeming disappointment, however, didn’t stop him from pocketing the money.
Harry wondered if Malfoy and this man had a standing agreement, because it didn’t look like Malfoy was planning on leaving anytime soon. Or if, maybe, the man was paying for services that Malfoy had already provided? He shuddered at the thought of it.
Doing his best to stay out of Malfoy’s sight, Harry worked his way around to the back of the shadowy room. As he weaved in and out of the low tables and the overstuffed chairs, Harry noticed, for the first time, that there were only men in the room. He wasn’t sure why that didn’t surprise him. He also noticed that the waiters, many dressed in much less than what Malfoy was wearing, looked like they were peddling far more than alcohol.
Just as he lowered himself into a comfortable leather chair, a tall brunet with coffee colored eyes and a slightly crooked nose approached. Harry wondered if it had been broken.
“My name is Antoine. Can I get you something?” He looked over Harry appraisingly, his eyes too old in his otherwise youthful face. “Perhaps something at the bar?” he prompted, jutting his chin towards Malfoy.
Harry flushed, thinking of what he’d just witnessed. “And what makes you think that I’d want anything at the bar?” he asked through clenched teeth.
Antoine shrugged. “You work in a place like this long enough,” he offered, “you notice things.”
“And does he work here?” Harry asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He glanced over to Malfoy and realized with a jolt that the older man had gone. But it didn’t seem to matter as Malfoy was already being approached by someone else - this one far younger. He was quite fit actually, Harry appraised begrudgingly, far better than the last. If one could classify such things in terms of better or worse.
“I should work so hard,” Antoine returned as he laid down a cardboard coaster. “But he is available, you know,” he mentioned as if he were reading a list of the house specials instead of offering someone up as easily as one would a pound of meat.
“What?” Harry sneered. “You mean for the evening?”
Antoine frowned. “If that’s all you want, then, I don’t see why not. Though I suppose it’s up to him, really, now isn’t it?”
Having heard more than enough, Harry ordered a double scotch and settled back down in the shadows to watch the show. And what a show it was.
As Harry drank, Malfoy held court. Every man who came in the door seemed to know him and feel compelled to buy him a drink. Although Harry’d only seen Malfoy drink Butterbeer, or on the rare occasion Firewhiskey, at school, Malfoy’s taste had obviously matured. Harry scowled as Malfoy laughingly accepted flute after flute of sparkling champagne.
The longer Harry watched Malfoy’s slender fingers toy with the delicate flutes and his rosy lips sucking off strawberries, the madder he got.
Thinking about all the times that he’d wanked to Malfoy - the third scotch having lowered his inhibitions at least to the point of self-honesty - all the while knowing that he was out of bounds, Harry was struck by the irony of being faced with a Malfoy who fucked for money.
While Malfoy certainly didn’t look poor, Harry wondered if Malfoy truly did have the ability to pick and choose as Antoine had suggested or if he had no choice in the matter - something that would certainly explain his going with the likes of Smith and Nott.
And that conjecture, as disgusting as it might be, was just the beginning. He found himself wondering too many things. He had too many unsettling thoughts running around his head - thoughts that sounded suspiciously like questions. Questions like: How much did Malfoy charge? Would Malfoy say yes to him, even if Harry could bring himself to ask? What if he said no? Then what? How much would paying for it detract from the fantasy of having Malfoy saying ‘yes’ because he wanted to?
As the images of his youthful desires swirled in scotch-flavored whirlpools, a shadow fell across the already dim table.
“Harry Potter.”
Harry’s head snapped up as surely as if it had been on a string. He could feel the telltale stain of blood blossoming across his otherwise pale face.
“When Antoine told me that the world’s most adorable straight boy was interested in something at the bar, I was intrigued. But, now, I must say that I’m absolutely stunned.” Malfoy set two champagne flutes on the table and helped himself to a seat, his long legs resting too close to Harry’s for comfort. “Despite the misinterpretation,” he continued, his eyes sparkling, “I must admit that you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Harry shifted back. “Malfoy,” he mumbled sourly, wishing, immediately, that he could cut out his tongue.
Malfoy frowned at the three empty glasses. “Why so glum, Potter? I’d offer you some champagne, but it appears that you started without me.
Harry shook his head, not sure why Malfoy was being so damn friendly -then again, perhaps it was his job to be friendly. As Harry reached out to take the proffered drink, their hands brushed; something sparked all the way up his arm and settled deep within his chest.
“So what brings you to my little corner of the world? Last I heard you and the Weaslette were planning on setting up house a little south of Hogsmeade.”
Harry’s stomach twisted and he tossed back the drink without tasting it. He couldn’t believe that Malfoy, given his current circumstances, would dare mock anything that Harry might be up to - not that it was true. Well, not anymore. “Oh yeah?” he sneered, distrustful of Malfoy’s idle chitchat. “Last I heard you were giving hand jobs for five galleons a pop.”
“I see.” Malfoy’s expression didn’t change. “You’ve been talking to that bastard, Smith, have you?”
Harry couldn’t believe it. Malfoy hadn’t even blinked. It was almost like he didn’t even care that everyone must know what he’d become.
“You do realize...” Malfoy took a sip, letting the liquid linger on his tongue. “...that five galleons is quite a bit for a hand-job.”
Harry flushed. “No actually, I didn’t realize as I’ve never paid for one.”
“Or been paid, I dare say.” They sat there in awkward silence until Malfoy pushed himself up from the chair. “As charming as this has been, Potter,” he said quietly, “I really must be going.”
Still not sure when such words as “sight for sore eyes,” “stunned,” “adorable,” or “charming,” had crept into Malfoy’s vocabulary, especially in relation to him, Harry took a deep breath and lurched to his feet. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Malfoy leaned back towards him, eyes flashing. “So, is that what you came here for, Potter?” he spat, sounding much more like the Malfoy that Harry remembered from school and from their sporadic meetings during the war. “To see how the mighty have fallen? Or when you heard about my depravity, did you decide to expand the parameters of your quest to rid the world of evil?”
”How much?” Harry choked, without thinking.
“Is it not enough that - ” Malfoy’s diatribe came to a grinding halt. “What?”
Harry shook his head in an effort to reclaim some sense, but he couldn’t seem to find any. “How much?” he repeated. “Anthony said you were available for the evening.”
“Antoine,” Malfoy corrected.
“What?!”
“His name is Antoine!” Malfoy shouted, drawing curious stares from the other patrons.
“Oh.” Harry sat back down, his legs ready to give.
Malfoy, too, sat back down. “Let me make sure I heard you correctly,” he said slowly. “Did you just ask me how much I would charge to give you...” He blinked. “...a hand job?”
Harry shook his head and something flickered behind Malfoy’s eyes.
“Not just that,” Harry said, wondering if he could get Malfoy alone long enough to obliviate the last ten minutes and start over.
Malfoy’s expression changed so quickly that Harry couldn’t tell what he was thinking - not that he ever could. Finally, though, the disconcerting frown settled into a familiar derisive smirk.
“So what exactly are we talking about, here, Potter? I have a pretty good idea what Smith’s been saying -does that turn you on?” he asked, his voice sharp. “Into humiliation games are we?”
Harry shook his head, suddenly wishing that he’d stopped at two.
“Come on, Potter.” Malfoy leaned forward, one elegant finger burning a trail down Harry’s jaw. “How can I price something if you won’t tell me what you want?”
Averting his eyes from Malfoy’s face, Harry could barely breathe.
Malfoy’s fingers closed around his collar, his knuckles branding Harry’s neck. “I’ll tell you what,” he whispered, leaning closer still. “I’m on the floo network. I’m going to go and you can follow in 15 minutes.” Malfoy withdrew his wand discreetly and transformed one of the unused coasters into a business card.
Looking back up, Harry forced himself to meet Malfoy’s gaze. “But - but how much?”
“You decide,” Malfoy answered. “We’ll do whatever you want and you decide how much it’s worth to you.”
“But,” Harry protested, “I wouldn’t know what’s fair.”
To his surprise, Malfoy closed the distance and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry about it, Potter. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
It was closer to 35 minutes before Harry stumbled out of the fireplace and into Malfoy’s tastefully decorated flat. Not exactly what he’d been expecting, the living room was a calm oasis of dove greys and smoky blues.
Eyeing the plush carpet nervously, Harry toed off his soot covered shoes and set them carefully out of the path of any incoming visitors. ‘Malfoy must be good at what he does.’ He really wasn’t sure why the thought made his eyes hurt.
“You don’t waste anytime, do you?” Malfoy drawled.
Harry straightened, only to catch Malfoy staring at him though the mirror above the fireplace.
“Actually...” Malfoy pulled himself away from the doorframe slowly. “...I thought you’d changed your mind.”
Harry looked down at his cotton clad feet and wished that he’d put on something smarter. “I, I had to stop by Gringotts.” He swallowed. “Sorry.”
Malfoy had the grace to blush. “It wasn’t necessary, Potter. It’s not like I don’t know you’re good for it. Hell...” Malfoy laughed; it was not a happy sound. “...you’re the Boy-Who-Killed-the-Dark-Lord,” he pointed out as he stopped in front of Harry and reached up to reclaim his collar. “I’m sure there are some out there who’d make the case that I should be paying you.”
Harry tried to protest, but Malfoy’s tug silenced him. He took two stumbling steps forward and closed his eyes. He felt his breath bouncing off of Malfoy’s face and he was glad that he’d thought to do a freshening charm before he’d left the bank.
“How do you feel about kissing?” Malfoy asked, his lips brushing lightly against Harry’s jaw.
“I...” Harry swallowed. “...I like kissing. Why?”
Malfoy’s tongue touched the pulse at the base of his throat. “Some people think kissing is too personal in a paid transaction.”
“Oh.” Harry was barely able to stop himself from following when Malfoy pulled away. Shaking his head in an attempt to cover his reaction, though something in Malfoy’s told him it was too late, Harry forced himself to take a step back. “I guess -I guess I always thought...” he trailed off, not sure how to tell Malfoy that he always thought that the kiss/no kiss decision was up to the whore.
Malfoy raised his eyebrow questioningly.
“We - well,” Harry stammered. “How - how do you feel about it?”
A low growl sounded from the back of Malfoy’s throat. “The customer’s always right, Potter,” he remarked. “It’s entirely up to you.”
Not wanting Malfoy to think he was anything like Zacharias Smith, Harry reached out and tilted Malfoy’s face to the side. “I like kissing,” he repeated, feeling like a third year.
Malfoy smirked. “Then kissing you will have.”
Over the next six hours, Harry lived out every so-called dirty fantasy that he’d ever had about Malfoy.
They sucked each other off and fucked one another with the ease of men who had watched each other for years, memorizing strengths and celebrating weaknesses. From the first time that tongue met tongue, all of the psychological barriers that Harry thought he might have had crumbled like the driest of tinder beneath a trembling touch.
Malfoy hadn’t needed to be subdued as Nott had claimed, nor had he capitulated only after a sharp cuff to the ears as Smith had broadcasted. Instead, he opened himself to Harry’s every whim. He drank every glance, every touch, every kiss with what looked like silent adoration, always twisting and turning and curling his body around Harry’s, making sure that they were always, at every moment, skin to skin.
Come dinner time, Malfoy ordered in, but Harry paid. They ate naked in a surprisingly companionable silence. When Harry polished off the last of the noodles, Malfoy crawled into his lap, their erections brushing, and kissed him until all Harry could taste was Malfoy - the coriander and curry but a distant memory.
At 2:00 a.m., Harry made a move to leave, but Malfoy pulled him back down, kissing his way from neck to navel. Harry surrendered without pause as Malfoy engulfed his cock, already sore, if not raw, from the night’s endless barrage of sensual abuse. The orgasm surpassed pleasure and every nerve in his body cried out as he spent his seed in Draco Malfoy’s incredibly talented mouth.
Tears tracked Harry’s cheeks as he realized that no matter how close this night had been to everything that he’d ever dreamed of, that it would never be what he wanted. What he needed. Without any explanation, no words of goodbye, Harry disentangled himself from the clinging form of his one-time nemesis, dressed, and dropped a velvet pouch on the bedside table. The coins clanked noisily in the otherwise silent room.
Over the next thirty days, Harry spent 30,000 galleons on sex - or, rather, on sex with Malfoy.
He and Malfoy never discussed the amounts that he left - whether it was too much or not enough. Harry assumed that he was being fair, else Malfoy would have complained. He didn’t have the courage to ask Malfoy for a more permanent arrangement, but the thought of Malfoy with anyone else made him sick.
Although he still met his other friends for lunch, Harry spent every night at Malfoy’s flat. Sometimes they’d order in, like they’d done that first night, but most times they’d cook, combining Malfoy’s talent with potions with Harry’s practical experience gleaned from his years with the Dursleys.
They made pizzas and soups and curries and puddings. They made cookie dough and chocolate fondue - some of which never made it to the table, but it was consumed with gusto, nonetheless.
Despite that the evenings stretched closer and closer to morning with each encounter, Harry never stayed the entire night. Malfoy had never been clear on that point and Harry was afraid that if he asked, Malfoy would revert back to “the customer is always right.”
Besides, it was easier to pretend that this was something more than what it was if he just left the money on the nightstand. The thought of actually having to see Malfoy’s eyes as he handed him his due literally made his stomach turn.
‘It’s better this way,’ Harry assured himself as he crawled out of Malfoy’s bed for the 31st night in a row. ‘Much, much better.’
Next Chapter
Author: l_morgan
Rating: R
Pairings: H/D (of course)
Summary: Sometimes two wrongs can make a right.
Disclaimer: Anything profitable belongs to J.K.
A/N: Set after the war. Spoilers for HBP.
Feedback and ConCrit is welcome! Special thanks to Islaofhope for her useful comments and to m_jadis for her careful beta and help at the end (all remaining errors are mine)! This story is complete and has been cross-posted shamelessly.
Warning: POV Switch between chapters 1 & 2
Chapter One
In one of the more secluded corners of the Leaky Cauldron, Seamus Finnigan beat his fist on the scarred table top, causing the pyramid of empty pint glasses to jolt dangerously.
“Watch it!” Ron shouted. “You almost brought the bloody thing down.”
Seamus swallowed a laugh and held up both hands. “You’re not going to believe what I heard last week from Zacharias Smith. Ron, Harry,” he said hurriedly, “you’re absolutely going to die. I can’t believe I just remembered it!”
Dean cast Seamus a warning look, but Seamus was too far gone for subtleties.
Harry smiled at Dean, though, he had to admit, he was curious as to what had Seamus so worked up. Truth be told, he hadn’t seen Seamus this excited since the Irish won the World Cup.
“So?” Ron asked as he helped the waitress unload their fourth round. “What’s so bloody important that you almost destroyed this, this...” He motioned to the misshapen structure at the center of the table. “...testament to our....”
“Intemperance?” Dean volunteered dryly.
Harry choked on his ale. “Do tell, Seamus,” he prompted, ignoring Ron’s baleful expression. “Did the Irish make the finals this year?”
“Hell no!” Seamus grabbed a fresh pint. “It’s way better than that!”
Harry glanced over at Dean; he frowned, however, when Dean refused to meet his eye.
“So, what is it?” Harry pressed. Given that Seamus and Dean seemed to be at odds, his curiosity was piqued all that much more.
“As I was saying,” Seamus began, enunciating clearly. “I ran into Zacharias Smith last week.”
“Wanker,” Ron muttered. Harry suppressed a grin.
“And he told me that Draco Malfoy - yes, you heard me, gentlemen - Draco Malfoy -”
“Of the West Essex Malfoys, you say?” Ron mocked; he tossed a crisp up in the air and caught in his mouth. “Of the lately of Azkaban Malfoys?”
“Leave it,” Harry warned.
“Yes, thank you, Harry.” Seamus took another drink. “Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted, Smith told me that Malfoy was working as a prostitute in some Muggle bar in London.”
“No!” Ron gasped.
“No.” Harry shook his head. “I don’t believe it.” He took a drink and glanced over at Dean who was staring into his ale as if looking into a pensieve.
Seamus shook his head, his mouth forming a crooked line. “I’m just telling you what I was told.”
“No way.” Ron grinned, his entire face flushed with delight. “In a Muggle bar? Malfoy?’
Hands trembling, Harry pushed his drink away. “And just who, exactly, told Smith?” he demanded, determined not to believe it and not sure why it mattered.
Seamus laughed and leaned forward, his face distorted through the wall of glass. “That’s just it -Smith was out with some Muggle friends when they ran across Malfoy at some manky bar - get this: Love’s Illusion. Smith actually hired him!” Seamus doubled over with laughter. “Can you even imagine?”
“No!” Harry snapped, even as he heard Ron agree.
As Ron’s and Seamus’ conjectures got more and more crass, Harry finished his drink. He didn’t think twice about reaching for Ron’s as well.
“But why would Malfoy do that?” Harry asked, disrupting Ron’s and Seamus’ nattering.
Ron shrugged. “Who cares? Dad said that the Ministry liquidated all of his assets after the war. He probably doesn’t have a choice.”
“Not all of his assets,” Seamus leered. “You know, I wouldn’t mind having Malfoy on his knees for about an hour - too bad Smith said he costs the moon.”
Harry blanched.
“Eww!” Ron squealed, picking up his empty glass and shooting Harry a dirty look.
“Get off it, Ron.” Seamus laughed. “Malfoy’s always had a pretty mouth - that is, when it wasn’t spouting all that death-eater crap. Isn’t that right, Dean?”
Dean shook his head without looking up. “Whatever you say, Finnigan.”
“Pretty or not...” Ron signaled the waitress to bring them another round, oblivious to the discord brewing at the table. “...if you do the deed, I never, ever want to hear details...” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “...unless, of course, there’s whips and chains involved.”
Over the next three weeks, the “Rumour” as it had come to be known in Harry’s mind, resurfaced three more times - once when Harry’d stopped in at the twins’ shop to take a look at the quarterly reports, once when he’d run into Colin Creevey outside of Florean Fortescue’s, and a third time when he’d met Hermione for lunch.
Zacharias Smith, it seemed, had been a busy man, as had Justin Finch-Fletchley, and, if the “Rumours” -plural, now - were true, Theodore Nott.
More often than he cared to admit, Harry imagined Malfoy in the positions that he’d heard shocked whispers of, or in the case of the twins, raucous laughter. It seemed that either Malfoy’s “clients” got off on hurting the one time Prince of Slytherin or else Malfoy simply got off on being hurt. Regardless, nothing that Harry’d heard thus far had anything to do with or looked anything like the ways that Harry himself wanted to touch his former nemesis.
Harry’s own fantasies of touching Malfoy, some stretching as far back as fourth year, had nothing to do with pain or humiliation - well, no one’s other than his own, he supposed, if they were to be found out. Besides, given that all of the touches that he and Malfoy had shared in reality had been designed to hurt, he figured that it was only natural that he’d wonder what it would be like to cajole, to comfort...to pleasure. He tried not to think how it blew holes in his theory that he’d never once had fantasies of hurting any of those people that he’d actually loved.
Unable to fake his way through another “If anyone deserves to be used and discarded like a dirty rag...” “But wouldn’t you like to be the one doing the discarding?” “Ewww!” three martini lunch with Ron and Seamus, Harry turned right instead of left and found himself walking away from Diagon Alley and heading deep into the heart of Muggle London. He told himself that he didn’t have a destination in mind and that he’d know where he was going only when he got there. As his trainers hit the sidewalk, with no hesitation whatsoever, he assured himself that he had no plan, no agenda. Well, one out of two wasn’t bad.
The “Love’s Illusion Night Club and Lounge” had once been an old factory. Dark and smoky, the main room was surprisingly quiet, with just the faintest trace of smooth jazz filtering through the air like a seductive promise.
Malfoy sat casually perched on a barstool, dressed in Muggle clothes. However, nothing else about Malfoy was casual, wearing, as he was, black dress pants and a white button down shirt made not of the oxford broad cloth that Harry favored, but rather something that looked alive against Malfoy’s opalescent skin. He was chatting to an older heavy set Muggle who was wearing a tweedy suit and holding a cane.
Even as Harry watched, the smoke filling his lungs, the stranger pulled out a pocket book and wrote out a check. From where he was standing, Harry couldn’t see the amount, but whatever it was, Malfoy seemed inordinately pleased.
Squealing, Malfoy clapped his hands, before extending his right one, palm up.
Something in Harry died as he watched the transaction.
Just then, the older man checked the time and glanced at the door.
Not wanting to be seen, Harry stepped hurriedly back into the shadows. He watched as Malfoy’s smile dimmed and he shook his head. His seeming disappointment, however, didn’t stop him from pocketing the money.
Harry wondered if Malfoy and this man had a standing agreement, because it didn’t look like Malfoy was planning on leaving anytime soon. Or if, maybe, the man was paying for services that Malfoy had already provided? He shuddered at the thought of it.
Doing his best to stay out of Malfoy’s sight, Harry worked his way around to the back of the shadowy room. As he weaved in and out of the low tables and the overstuffed chairs, Harry noticed, for the first time, that there were only men in the room. He wasn’t sure why that didn’t surprise him. He also noticed that the waiters, many dressed in much less than what Malfoy was wearing, looked like they were peddling far more than alcohol.
Just as he lowered himself into a comfortable leather chair, a tall brunet with coffee colored eyes and a slightly crooked nose approached. Harry wondered if it had been broken.
“My name is Antoine. Can I get you something?” He looked over Harry appraisingly, his eyes too old in his otherwise youthful face. “Perhaps something at the bar?” he prompted, jutting his chin towards Malfoy.
Harry flushed, thinking of what he’d just witnessed. “And what makes you think that I’d want anything at the bar?” he asked through clenched teeth.
Antoine shrugged. “You work in a place like this long enough,” he offered, “you notice things.”
“And does he work here?” Harry asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He glanced over to Malfoy and realized with a jolt that the older man had gone. But it didn’t seem to matter as Malfoy was already being approached by someone else - this one far younger. He was quite fit actually, Harry appraised begrudgingly, far better than the last. If one could classify such things in terms of better or worse.
“I should work so hard,” Antoine returned as he laid down a cardboard coaster. “But he is available, you know,” he mentioned as if he were reading a list of the house specials instead of offering someone up as easily as one would a pound of meat.
“What?” Harry sneered. “You mean for the evening?”
Antoine frowned. “If that’s all you want, then, I don’t see why not. Though I suppose it’s up to him, really, now isn’t it?”
Having heard more than enough, Harry ordered a double scotch and settled back down in the shadows to watch the show. And what a show it was.
As Harry drank, Malfoy held court. Every man who came in the door seemed to know him and feel compelled to buy him a drink. Although Harry’d only seen Malfoy drink Butterbeer, or on the rare occasion Firewhiskey, at school, Malfoy’s taste had obviously matured. Harry scowled as Malfoy laughingly accepted flute after flute of sparkling champagne.
The longer Harry watched Malfoy’s slender fingers toy with the delicate flutes and his rosy lips sucking off strawberries, the madder he got.
Thinking about all the times that he’d wanked to Malfoy - the third scotch having lowered his inhibitions at least to the point of self-honesty - all the while knowing that he was out of bounds, Harry was struck by the irony of being faced with a Malfoy who fucked for money.
While Malfoy certainly didn’t look poor, Harry wondered if Malfoy truly did have the ability to pick and choose as Antoine had suggested or if he had no choice in the matter - something that would certainly explain his going with the likes of Smith and Nott.
And that conjecture, as disgusting as it might be, was just the beginning. He found himself wondering too many things. He had too many unsettling thoughts running around his head - thoughts that sounded suspiciously like questions. Questions like: How much did Malfoy charge? Would Malfoy say yes to him, even if Harry could bring himself to ask? What if he said no? Then what? How much would paying for it detract from the fantasy of having Malfoy saying ‘yes’ because he wanted to?
As the images of his youthful desires swirled in scotch-flavored whirlpools, a shadow fell across the already dim table.
“Harry Potter.”
Harry’s head snapped up as surely as if it had been on a string. He could feel the telltale stain of blood blossoming across his otherwise pale face.
“When Antoine told me that the world’s most adorable straight boy was interested in something at the bar, I was intrigued. But, now, I must say that I’m absolutely stunned.” Malfoy set two champagne flutes on the table and helped himself to a seat, his long legs resting too close to Harry’s for comfort. “Despite the misinterpretation,” he continued, his eyes sparkling, “I must admit that you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Harry shifted back. “Malfoy,” he mumbled sourly, wishing, immediately, that he could cut out his tongue.
Malfoy frowned at the three empty glasses. “Why so glum, Potter? I’d offer you some champagne, but it appears that you started without me.
Harry shook his head, not sure why Malfoy was being so damn friendly -then again, perhaps it was his job to be friendly. As Harry reached out to take the proffered drink, their hands brushed; something sparked all the way up his arm and settled deep within his chest.
“So what brings you to my little corner of the world? Last I heard you and the Weaslette were planning on setting up house a little south of Hogsmeade.”
Harry’s stomach twisted and he tossed back the drink without tasting it. He couldn’t believe that Malfoy, given his current circumstances, would dare mock anything that Harry might be up to - not that it was true. Well, not anymore. “Oh yeah?” he sneered, distrustful of Malfoy’s idle chitchat. “Last I heard you were giving hand jobs for five galleons a pop.”
“I see.” Malfoy’s expression didn’t change. “You’ve been talking to that bastard, Smith, have you?”
Harry couldn’t believe it. Malfoy hadn’t even blinked. It was almost like he didn’t even care that everyone must know what he’d become.
“You do realize...” Malfoy took a sip, letting the liquid linger on his tongue. “...that five galleons is quite a bit for a hand-job.”
Harry flushed. “No actually, I didn’t realize as I’ve never paid for one.”
“Or been paid, I dare say.” They sat there in awkward silence until Malfoy pushed himself up from the chair. “As charming as this has been, Potter,” he said quietly, “I really must be going.”
Still not sure when such words as “sight for sore eyes,” “stunned,” “adorable,” or “charming,” had crept into Malfoy’s vocabulary, especially in relation to him, Harry took a deep breath and lurched to his feet. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Malfoy leaned back towards him, eyes flashing. “So, is that what you came here for, Potter?” he spat, sounding much more like the Malfoy that Harry remembered from school and from their sporadic meetings during the war. “To see how the mighty have fallen? Or when you heard about my depravity, did you decide to expand the parameters of your quest to rid the world of evil?”
”How much?” Harry choked, without thinking.
“Is it not enough that - ” Malfoy’s diatribe came to a grinding halt. “What?”
Harry shook his head in an effort to reclaim some sense, but he couldn’t seem to find any. “How much?” he repeated. “Anthony said you were available for the evening.”
“Antoine,” Malfoy corrected.
“What?!”
“His name is Antoine!” Malfoy shouted, drawing curious stares from the other patrons.
“Oh.” Harry sat back down, his legs ready to give.
Malfoy, too, sat back down. “Let me make sure I heard you correctly,” he said slowly. “Did you just ask me how much I would charge to give you...” He blinked. “...a hand job?”
Harry shook his head and something flickered behind Malfoy’s eyes.
“Not just that,” Harry said, wondering if he could get Malfoy alone long enough to obliviate the last ten minutes and start over.
Malfoy’s expression changed so quickly that Harry couldn’t tell what he was thinking - not that he ever could. Finally, though, the disconcerting frown settled into a familiar derisive smirk.
“So what exactly are we talking about, here, Potter? I have a pretty good idea what Smith’s been saying -does that turn you on?” he asked, his voice sharp. “Into humiliation games are we?”
Harry shook his head, suddenly wishing that he’d stopped at two.
“Come on, Potter.” Malfoy leaned forward, one elegant finger burning a trail down Harry’s jaw. “How can I price something if you won’t tell me what you want?”
Averting his eyes from Malfoy’s face, Harry could barely breathe.
Malfoy’s fingers closed around his collar, his knuckles branding Harry’s neck. “I’ll tell you what,” he whispered, leaning closer still. “I’m on the floo network. I’m going to go and you can follow in 15 minutes.” Malfoy withdrew his wand discreetly and transformed one of the unused coasters into a business card.
Looking back up, Harry forced himself to meet Malfoy’s gaze. “But - but how much?”
“You decide,” Malfoy answered. “We’ll do whatever you want and you decide how much it’s worth to you.”
“But,” Harry protested, “I wouldn’t know what’s fair.”
To his surprise, Malfoy closed the distance and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry about it, Potter. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
It was closer to 35 minutes before Harry stumbled out of the fireplace and into Malfoy’s tastefully decorated flat. Not exactly what he’d been expecting, the living room was a calm oasis of dove greys and smoky blues.
Eyeing the plush carpet nervously, Harry toed off his soot covered shoes and set them carefully out of the path of any incoming visitors. ‘Malfoy must be good at what he does.’ He really wasn’t sure why the thought made his eyes hurt.
“You don’t waste anytime, do you?” Malfoy drawled.
Harry straightened, only to catch Malfoy staring at him though the mirror above the fireplace.
“Actually...” Malfoy pulled himself away from the doorframe slowly. “...I thought you’d changed your mind.”
Harry looked down at his cotton clad feet and wished that he’d put on something smarter. “I, I had to stop by Gringotts.” He swallowed. “Sorry.”
Malfoy had the grace to blush. “It wasn’t necessary, Potter. It’s not like I don’t know you’re good for it. Hell...” Malfoy laughed; it was not a happy sound. “...you’re the Boy-Who-Killed-the-Dark-Lord,” he pointed out as he stopped in front of Harry and reached up to reclaim his collar. “I’m sure there are some out there who’d make the case that I should be paying you.”
Harry tried to protest, but Malfoy’s tug silenced him. He took two stumbling steps forward and closed his eyes. He felt his breath bouncing off of Malfoy’s face and he was glad that he’d thought to do a freshening charm before he’d left the bank.
“How do you feel about kissing?” Malfoy asked, his lips brushing lightly against Harry’s jaw.
“I...” Harry swallowed. “...I like kissing. Why?”
Malfoy’s tongue touched the pulse at the base of his throat. “Some people think kissing is too personal in a paid transaction.”
“Oh.” Harry was barely able to stop himself from following when Malfoy pulled away. Shaking his head in an attempt to cover his reaction, though something in Malfoy’s told him it was too late, Harry forced himself to take a step back. “I guess -I guess I always thought...” he trailed off, not sure how to tell Malfoy that he always thought that the kiss/no kiss decision was up to the whore.
Malfoy raised his eyebrow questioningly.
“We - well,” Harry stammered. “How - how do you feel about it?”
A low growl sounded from the back of Malfoy’s throat. “The customer’s always right, Potter,” he remarked. “It’s entirely up to you.”
Not wanting Malfoy to think he was anything like Zacharias Smith, Harry reached out and tilted Malfoy’s face to the side. “I like kissing,” he repeated, feeling like a third year.
Malfoy smirked. “Then kissing you will have.”
Over the next six hours, Harry lived out every so-called dirty fantasy that he’d ever had about Malfoy.
They sucked each other off and fucked one another with the ease of men who had watched each other for years, memorizing strengths and celebrating weaknesses. From the first time that tongue met tongue, all of the psychological barriers that Harry thought he might have had crumbled like the driest of tinder beneath a trembling touch.
Malfoy hadn’t needed to be subdued as Nott had claimed, nor had he capitulated only after a sharp cuff to the ears as Smith had broadcasted. Instead, he opened himself to Harry’s every whim. He drank every glance, every touch, every kiss with what looked like silent adoration, always twisting and turning and curling his body around Harry’s, making sure that they were always, at every moment, skin to skin.
Come dinner time, Malfoy ordered in, but Harry paid. They ate naked in a surprisingly companionable silence. When Harry polished off the last of the noodles, Malfoy crawled into his lap, their erections brushing, and kissed him until all Harry could taste was Malfoy - the coriander and curry but a distant memory.
At 2:00 a.m., Harry made a move to leave, but Malfoy pulled him back down, kissing his way from neck to navel. Harry surrendered without pause as Malfoy engulfed his cock, already sore, if not raw, from the night’s endless barrage of sensual abuse. The orgasm surpassed pleasure and every nerve in his body cried out as he spent his seed in Draco Malfoy’s incredibly talented mouth.
Tears tracked Harry’s cheeks as he realized that no matter how close this night had been to everything that he’d ever dreamed of, that it would never be what he wanted. What he needed. Without any explanation, no words of goodbye, Harry disentangled himself from the clinging form of his one-time nemesis, dressed, and dropped a velvet pouch on the bedside table. The coins clanked noisily in the otherwise silent room.
Over the next thirty days, Harry spent 30,000 galleons on sex - or, rather, on sex with Malfoy.
He and Malfoy never discussed the amounts that he left - whether it was too much or not enough. Harry assumed that he was being fair, else Malfoy would have complained. He didn’t have the courage to ask Malfoy for a more permanent arrangement, but the thought of Malfoy with anyone else made him sick.
Although he still met his other friends for lunch, Harry spent every night at Malfoy’s flat. Sometimes they’d order in, like they’d done that first night, but most times they’d cook, combining Malfoy’s talent with potions with Harry’s practical experience gleaned from his years with the Dursleys.
They made pizzas and soups and curries and puddings. They made cookie dough and chocolate fondue - some of which never made it to the table, but it was consumed with gusto, nonetheless.
Despite that the evenings stretched closer and closer to morning with each encounter, Harry never stayed the entire night. Malfoy had never been clear on that point and Harry was afraid that if he asked, Malfoy would revert back to “the customer is always right.”
Besides, it was easier to pretend that this was something more than what it was if he just left the money on the nightstand. The thought of actually having to see Malfoy’s eyes as he handed him his due literally made his stomach turn.
‘It’s better this way,’ Harry assured himself as he crawled out of Malfoy’s bed for the 31st night in a row. ‘Much, much better.’
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