Harry gazed at the ceiling, not even having the heart to fake pleasure. But the man didn't seem to care, thrusting in and out of him without remorse. The man finished off, and Harry wasn't even hard.
Harry rolled over, facing away and staring out the hotel window at the London that starched out before him. He could hear his man putting his clothes back on, the rustle of cloth, the zipper being pulled up. Neither of them said anything. The other man tossed something onto the bed, with a quick muttered 'thanks' before leaving. Harry waited until he heard the door close before moving. He set up, grabbing what the man had tossed. He quickly counted it, 100 pounds. That should last him for at least a few more meals. Harry climbed out of bed, tossing his clothes on and shoving the cash into his pocket. He left the room, taking the elevator down and not making eye contact with anybody. Everybody in this part of town knew what he was anyway, a whore. A streetwalker forced to sell the only thing he had left, his body. He stepped out onto the cool street, slowly making his way to the abandoned warehouse which usually served as his home. The warehouse already had people in it, but that wasn't uncommon. Lots of homeless liked to bunker down here. Harry moved through them to his corner, tucking himself into the rotting sheets he'd managed to find for himself.
"Smooth day?" Harry asked quietly.
"Very," a female voice replied. At first Harry hadn't dared try to make any friends. All his old ones were dead or might as well have been, but Alice was different. She'd work during the day while Harry slept, and during the night she'd sleep while Harry worked. They didn't talk much except for the few moments in between. But it didn't matter, it was better this way. Speech was a commodity; it was pointless to waste it when there was hardly any of it left anymore. Ever since Voldemort won the war.