Disclaimer: Hah, yeaaaaah. I'm JKR. Riiiight.
A/N: Flame me all you want- I wrote this cause I wanted a change, and I just couldn't get back into my old stuff until I did something new. And this is probably gonna be slash, btw.
Summary: A tale of love, hate, drink, drugs and (of course) magic. Harry's 17, a prostitute, and also (according to some weird guy with a beard) a wizard, which is probably the weirdest thing he's heard all day. But his flat sucks and is full of empty bottles (the worst kind), and this guy may be a beardy-weirdy but he promises Harry there's a better life (and better pay) in the Wizarding Underworld. Hooray. Rating will get higher (I'm currently not quite sure where it should be. Anyone familiar with the American ratings willing to help?), and this probably shouldn't be read if you find swearing, excessive alcohol consumption, drugs, prostitution or homosexuals offensive.
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Chapter One: The few moments after you wake up and before you remember why you're on the floor are sheer bliss.
"Get the fuck up, you little bastard!" snapped Petunia, and her false nails dug into Harry's arm.
Harry groaned and, peeling his eyes open, found himself face to face with the carpet. He coughed, and then wished he hadn't, as even the slightest movement seemed to stab thousands of little knives into his head.
"'M up," he mumbled, rolling over and squinting against the glare of the bulb.
"About fucking time," hissed Petunia with pure venom, brushing her platinum (and obviously dyed) hair out of her face, and Harry would have sworn back but was too busy attempting to stop the top of his head falling off.
He closed his eyes, and from the sound of Petunia's heels clip-clopping away he could only assume she'd left him in peace at last. Well, as close to peace as you could get on the Infamous Privet Drive. He sighed, and fumbled around for his glasses, at last finding them by his feet, and then he surveyed the room.
It seemed there'd been a bit of a party last night. The whole room stank of stale cigarettes and booze, and the foul orange curtains had been ripped off the rail. No wonder Petunia had been angrier than normal. It looked like it'd been fun too; Harry mused as he crawled to his feet and kicked a couple of empty cans out of the way. And from the immensely painful headache, he probably had had fun, though now he was beginning to regret it.
Of course, living on Privet Drive, most people assumed Harry had some sort of resilience to alcohol and drugs built in, but he'd only been living in this crumby flat a few months, and that was after sleeping rough. But Privet Drive was pretty cool. Every night (and most days) he'd go out and get totally pissed, and have absolutely no recollection of the next couple of hours, which always helped in Harry's line of work.
Wading through the sea of bottles, cans and what looked like people's underwear (though whose he neither knew or wished to know) Harry eventually made his way to the dirty window and, more importantly, his weed and a few lighters. Of course, most of them were broken or empty (Harry could vaguely remember Dudley, Petunia's son, drank one once, for a bet or something. That had been an exciting trip to A&E), but after a bit of hit and miss he eventually found one that worked.
He threw the rest out of the window, and was sworn at by whoever was down there in reply. He stuck his head out, and grinned at Dudley.
"Oh, sorry mate, accidentally knocked them out. Forgot the window was open. No hard feelings, eh?"
"Not surprised you forgot, amount you drank last night. Probably killed half your brain cells. Not that you had many in the first place," sneered Dudley, flicking his greasy blond hair out of his eyes.
"Yeah sure. Later, Dudders," grinned Harry, blowing his friend a kiss.
"Later, Potter. Try not to fuck too many old men whilst I'm gone," and with that Dudley stalked off. Probably to terrorise old ladies or something, Harry figured as he lit his spliff.
"What the fuck are you still doing here, boy?" snarled Petunia, kicking the door open and glaring at Harry through heavily mascara-ed eyes.
"What are you on about, you screwy bitch?" snapped Harry, stubbing out his spliff with resignation.
"You shouldn't drink so much if it makes you forget appointments," she sniffed, kicking a can disdainfully away with turquoise hells.
"You can't talk," spat Harry, but now he was beginning to remember vaguely.
Petunia sighed and threw a piece of cardboard at Harry. He caught it, and only a glance at what turned out to be a beer-mat told him he was horrendously late.
"Oh. Fuck!" he exclaimed, pushing his lighter and keys hurriedly into his pockets. "I haven't even got time to change. And, fuck!" he groaned, staring at himself in the cracked mirror. "Look at me, Petunia! Why didn't you wake me up earlier? Then I could've at least washed some of this shit off…"
"I hear the smudged eye-liner look is," replied Petunia sarcastically. "Besides, he said he didn't want to fuck, just… talk." She rolled her eyes, and clopped out of the room.
Harry sighed in relief, pulling on his tight denim jacket. He could remember now- tall guy with a beard, weird dress sense, didn't really seem like Harry's normal kind of customer, just wanted to talk. At least it didn't matter if he looked crap, but he still felt crap as he rushed out of his one-roomed flat, almost forgetting to lock the door behind him. He really shouldn't drink so much, and now he was direly in need of a good few cigarettes. But, as he sprinted down the stairs with long legs, there was no time.
He was horrendously late.