Draco had fallen hard after the war, lost everything. He had been pardoned, but that didn't mean he was really in the clear. No one wanted anything to do with 'death eater scum' except to hurt him. He had been mobbed and beaten more than once. They also cut off access to his money … his home … his father rotting in Azkaban … everything he knew and loved … gone. All he had was his wand.

So he escaped to the Muggle world, moved into a small bedsit in the middle of a concrete jungle of flats, tried to escape his past and start a new life, but he had no skills. He couldn't cook, couldn't clean. Couldn't do any of the menial task unqualified labourers had to do- he's spent his life being waited on by house elves, he knew nothing of how to do a day's work. He tried, working night shifts at a café, but he was clumsy and short tempered, and eventually the boss stopped giving him shifts. He could paint, having used it as a respite from his father during his youth but he couldn't afford the supplies for that.

Eventually, after months of working job to job, missing meals and going cold at night, he did the only thing he could think of: he sold himself. He didn't want to, but he needed to make money somehow, he needed to feed himself and home himself and dress himself. There were plenty of needy businessmen in the financial district who were desperate for a night with a young man, who could give them what their oblivious wives never could. They were quick and rough and desperate for a good fuck, and Draco was willing to give them what they wanted, if they paid his fee.

But the money was uncertain, and he'd been kicked out of his bedsit after he could keep up the rent. He's moved in with his pimp, sleeping on a dam sofa in the corner of a dingy living room, leaving before dawn and not coming back until late in the night. His pimp was charging him rent as well as taking a cut of his fees, which left him with barely enough for food, and definitely not enough to try and get his own place. He was working whenever and wherever he could.

That's how he found himself standing on a street corner, wearing very short, practically see-through pants and a sleeveless shirt, waiting for a possible customer….

Harry, on the other hand, had risen higher than ever before after the war. The famous "boy who lived" became the Saviour of the Wizarding World, and for a while he revelled in it. He enjoyed finally having the ability to rest, to do something for himself, without thinking of the consequences. He was, perhaps, even more reckless than he had ever been before. It didn't matter if he went riding round on Sirius's bike, or performed intricate stunts on his broom. If he died, it didn't mean the end of the world, if he was gone, life would go on. He was free.

But that freedom came with a cost. He couldn't go out in a wizarding town without being recognised and followed by swarms of fans and journalist, craving the attention of the Chosen One. When it became too much, he had escaped to the Muggle world, the world he grew up in. He sold Grimmauld Place, cut all ties with the wizarding world, and moved into a flat in Central London. It was small, but it was elegantly furnished. The location of the house meant it was pricey, over 100,000 galleons. He was surrounded by young couples who were desperate to have a slice of city life, but couldn't afford to buy a house. He found that he didn't mind the costs, the flat was perfect. Victorian, with high ceilings and wooden floors, painted with soft greys. He shied away from any colours-he associated them with Hogwarts, with houses and quidditch and spells and curses and-…

He was wandering the streets near his home when he spotted a familiar figure on the street in front of him, walking towards him, shocked. "Draco. What are you doing here?"

Draco froze when he heard a familiar voice; it certainly wasn't his pimp's, but it could be any of his regular 'customers'. He slowly turned to face him, his eyes widening when he saw green eyes and black hair. ''P-potter?'' he asked in surprise.

Harry was initially amused by Draco's choice of clothes. He assumed that like many of the wizards harry had met before, he was trying to blend in with muggles, and failing miserably. "What on earth are you wearing? You look like a prostitute!" He said, chuckling softly at the idea.

Draco looked down at those words, using what he'd learned from his father to control his emotions, not letting the tears spill. ''Just leave.'' he sighed, fiddling with the tight shirt, that was even more see-through than his pants.

"Malfoy, hey, what's wrong?" He said, lifting Dracos chin so he could look in his eyes. "It's not a problem, you just dont want people to..get the wrong idea."

''It won't be the wrong idea.'' he managed to say through gritted teeth, wrenching away from his grasp, not wanting to see the disgust that was sure to flit across his face. ''Now leave.''

"What? You mean..." Harry trailed off, understanding dawning on his face. "Draco...Why?" He felt cold chill go down him as all the amusement drain from him. Draco was a prostitute. It was Harry who'd got the wrong idea.

Draco snarled at the floor, desperately keeping back the tears. ''Because, Potter, I have no other means of earning money.'' he said, his hands curling into fists, preparing to defend himself, to run. Tension radiated from his entire body.

"But...All your fathers money, the Malfoy estate, you never stopped talking about it at school. What happened?" Harry reached for Draco's hand, but he quickly pulled away, shocked by the icy feeling of them. "Merlin, you're freezing. Take this." He said, shrugging off his jacket.

''The Ministry saw it fit to seize control of my vaults.'' he said, flinching away from his touch but shaking his head at the jacket - it would only be taken away, and he'd gotten used to the cold, anyway. ''What part of 'leave' is difficult to understand, Potter?'' he asked, trying to be the same person who'd sneered at him daily and failing.

"Draco, don't. Let me help you. You don't deserve this." He was completely shocked at this revelation, he'd assumed Malfoy had sold off all the estates and was sunning it up somewhere hot, surrounded by beautiful women. Not this. The though had never crossed his mind.

He looked down, wrapping his arms around himself, more protection from everyone around them than the cold wind. The shirt covered any bruises he had on his chest and back, but the ones on his arms were visible when he moved them.

Harry gasped when he saw them. "Look at what you're doing to yourself, Draco!" Harry hissed out, rage boiling in him as he saw the bruises. "You're going to refuse my help because of your damn pride?!"

''No, I'm going to refuse your help because there's nothing you can do.'' he said, his eyes flashing with hurt for a moment. ''Now please leave.'' he said in a soft voice.

"I'm not going to leave you here, Draco. I have a house 'round the corner from here. If you don't come with me I'll stun you and drag you there myself." Harry was bluffing, he didn't even have his wand on him, but he hoped that Draco would choose the more dignified option.

Draco looked up at that, pointedly ignoring the moisture at the corners of his eyes. He wished he hadn't left his wand in his flat, but he didn't want it to get broken. He considered his options. He didn't doubt that Potter would stun him- he was certain that he was still the arrogant boy he was at school. "Fine, Potter. But you're going to have to pay me…."