Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any part of his world. **Sighs** I really wish I did. Book 8 would have been called Harry Potter and his Harem of Men. Or something else that involved a lot of man-sex.
Warning: If you do not like foul language or man-sex, please go elsewhere :)
P.S.- I am sooo happy to be starting a new story! My last story was becoming tedious work! I hope you enjoy this one though. Pretty please review!
You've never seen death? Look in the mirror every day and you will see it like bees working in a glass hive ~ Jean Cocteau
Harry stared warily at the stranger in front of him, memorizing every aspect of the man, because that was what Harry was trained to do. He observed people, their looks, their mannerisms, their way of speaking. It was a useful tool in his field, and one he found himself relying on even outside of work. Because after all, regardless of what anyone says, you can tell a lot about a person by their appearance. And the man standing in front of Harry was no exception.
The stranger had pallid, chalky skin that stretched taut across his almost-too-thin frame, making him appear ragged and beaten down. His matted black hair looked unwashed, unbrushed, un-everything, showing just how little he cared about his appearance. And his eyes, which were dull and lifeless, never held Harry's gaze for more than a second or two at a time, preferring to fixate themselves on an empty corner, or more often, the floor.
Harry processed these things in his mind and began building a mental profile of the stranger, because that was also what he was trained to do. After a moment, he could deduce that the man was employed and that he threw himself into his work 100%, not because he loved his job, but because he had nothing to go home to. The stranger was single, had little or no family to speak of, and as a result of his short-comings in these areas, he had closed himself off to the world nearly completely. He rarely looked people in the eyes and hated being looked at even more. In short, he was a loner.
Harry couldn't help but feel sorry for the man in front of him. No one deserved that kind of lonely, ungratifying existence. It was a shame really. But more than that, perhaps part of the reason Harry felt so sorry for the man was because he reminded Harry of himself. Hell, he even looked a lot like Harry. He had the same color hair, same color eyes. Harry swore that if he brushed aside the lock of messy hair covering the man's forehead, it would reveal a lightening shaped scar.
So Harry narrowed his eyes and inched closer to the glass through which he was viewing the stranger. And even though the glass was cracked and clouding around the edges, the resemblance was easy to see. The stranger could have been Harry's twin, his rougher, dirtier, more pathetic twin. And the more he thought about it, the more Harry realized how true that was—because mirrors don't lie.
And because mirrors don't lie and because the truth hurts, Harry picked up a stone door-stopper from his bathroom floor and hurled it at the stranger in front of him. The mirror shattered into a million tiny pieces, littering the porcelain sink and tile floor with jagged shards of truth.
And when Harry got closer and realized the one stranger was now replaced by hundreds and hundreds of tiny strangers staring back at him, he took out his wand and obliterated every last piece of glass until they were nothing more than a pile of dust.
Then he slid down the wall, his head in his hands and he cried, his sobs echoing loudly in the tiny bathroom that was almost as empty as he was.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Draco stared at the dirty mirror below him, trying to get a good look at himself through the smudges and lines that littered its surface. He was still beautiful, of course, nothing could ever take that away from him, but he looked tired. His eyes were rimmed red from many sleepless nights, his lips chapped from countless evenings in the cold. But as a whole, he was still in tact.
Draco decided to clean off the mirror so he could better admire himself. So one by one, he snorted the lines that had dirtied the mirror's surface, until his face shone back at him clearly, perfect and in all of its glory, despite the crystalline trail that dusted his upper lip.
Draco leaned back and closed his eyes, thankful that at least his looks were still perfect.
Draco's beauty was all he had left after the war. His parents were in jail, the Malfoy estate, seized. He had no place to live, no food to eat, and was running out of options fast. So he decided to use the one resource that he still had left, his body. And with one as glorious as his, he was certain people would pay top dollar to have a piece of it.
So in the end, Draco looked at the situation like the business man he had been groomed to become. He reasoned that it would be absurd to waste such a potentially lucrative asset, and he opted to put it to work forthwith, that same night in fact.
Draco had started small, and for fear that someone he knew would discover him, he only worked muggle areas and he only went out two or three nights a week. But when he did go out, he would traipse aimlessly along the seedier streets of London, accepting proposition after proposition after proposition. The muggles couldn't keep their hands off of him, and rightfully so. He was beautiful, and for a price he was willing. What more could someone ask for?
On good nights, he would have as many five or six clients; on great nights, closer to ten. They would pay him ludicrous amounts of money for his company, sometimes buying him for an entire evening, sometimes only wanting him for ten minutes, but Draco didn't mind. Money was money and he enjoyed the variety offered to him by accepting long dates and short dates alike, because deep down, he enjoyed all aspects of his job.
He didn't mind being a pretty accessory on someone's arm at a charity event; he didn't mind getting paid to listen to someone's family problems; and he certainly didn't mind getting paid to fuck. Fucking was his favorite past-time, and he had become a master at it, being able to get a good shag out of almost any partner.
If someone was nervous and unsure, he easily slid into the driver's seat and took control. If someone was more the dominant type, Draco had no problem giving them the reigns and letting them have their way with him. And if someone was a freak in bed, well he didn't mind that either. The way he figured, variety was the spice of life.
So for several months, Draco kept doing what he did best, and made loads of money in the process.
But the party couldn't last forever, and much to Draco's dismay, the London police began patrolling the "red light districts" regularly in an attempt to cut down on prostitution and drugs in the area. Clients that had been regulars were disappearing left and right and the streets that were once filled with drunken businessmen and horny party-goers were empty, everyone scared off by the government's threats of harsh punishments and public ridicule for those that were caught soliciting.
And after a while, Draco was lucky to get three or four dates a week, barely giving him enough money to live, especially with the nasty muggle coke habit he had developed--thanks to one of his regulars.
His drug supplier used to accept sexual favors for the merchandise, typically using Draco's ass for 15 or 20 minutes and giving him a gram or so of coke in return, which Draco thought was quite fair. But unfortunately because of the new police presence in the area, his supplier's business was also suffering, forcing him to adopt a "cash only" policy for his wares--and his wares were expensive.
So between the drugs and the absurd amount of money Draco had been paying for his luxurious flat, he had no money saved and was flat broke. He barely ate, he was about to be evicted; his life was going down the toilet, and quickly.
But that was when he met Baron.
Draco had been working a particularly slimy London street corner, practically throwing himself on anyone that walked by. He hadn't eaten in more than a day and it had been almost 6 hours since he last nourished his other hunger; he was desparate. It was quickly approaching 4am and he had yet to have a date. He was just about ready to call it a night when a man suddenly approached him with his hand extended. Draco instinctively began to reach for his wand.
"Baron Dunlevy," the man said taking Draco's hand and enveloping it in a firm handshake.
"Collin Alverston," Draco lied smoothly. "Can I help you?"
"Actually, I think you can," Baron said smiling.
Draco looked at the man skeptically. He seemed non-threatening enough, friendly even; and he was certainly good looking. He had smooth, caramel-colored skin that glowed luminescently, even under the dim street lights, and black, shaggy hair Draco was sure had been carefully arranged to get the "I don't care about my hair," messy look. And his eyes--his eyes were so dark they looked black, which normally might have been off-putting, but they had a certain endearing, sparkle to them. Draco tried his hardest not to stare.
"So how can I help you?" Draco asked, gently trailing his fingers up and down the man's arm.
Baron smiled. "Well, I guess it's so much how you can help me...It's how I can help you." He paused a moment and then continued. "Business has been slow, I presume?"
Draco didn't answer. Instead he took a step back, narrowing his eyes at the stranger like he was trying to see him more clearly.
"I'll take that as a yes," Baron continued. "Well I think I can help."
"I don't need anyone's help," Draco scoffed. He turned and stalked away, his fingernails digging into his palms as he balled his fists in frustration. He didn't know what the guy was playing at. Draco Malfoycertainly didn't need anybody's help, not that Baron, some simple muggle, had any idea the weight the name Malfoy used to carry. Hell, he didn't even know that was Draco's real name. But even so, Draco couldn't help but feel pissed off anyway. Did he look like he needed people's charity?
Draco turned down his street, his stomach grumbling with hunger as he got closer to his flat. He figured he would try to go to bed right away--perhaps he could sleep off his hunger for the evening and start fresh again the following day.
As Draco reached his stoop, he dug through his bag in search of his keys when a sudden noise startled him. He whipped around, his fingers poised on the wand in his front pocket.
"One hundred galleons for an hour of your time." Baron was leaning casually the stoop's handrail.
"Wha--I--You followed me home?" Draco asked incredulously. "How did you--I didn't see you...Where did you come from?"
"You can take your hand off your wand Collin. If I wanted to harm you I would have done it already."
Draco began panicking. Who was this guy? He knew Draco had a wand. He seemed to know his name wasn't Collin. Draco had gone months without anyone truly knowing his identity, so who was this guy that suddenly came out of nowhere?
Baron stepped up on the stoop so he was just inches away from Draco. "300 galleons for an hour of your time. And I promise, if what I have to say doesn't interest you, I will leave you alone."
As if on cue, Draco's stomach began rumbling with hunger again. He thought about the proposition. What was the worst that could come of it? If the guy was trying to trick him, Draco was confident in his defensive skills and was sure he'd be able to finish Baron off. And that was only the worst case scenario; the best case scenario, Draco would listen to whatever spiel the man had to offer, and then would have 300 galleons to get food and coke, and maybe even have a little money left over to put towards rent. What did he have to lose?
"Okay," Draco said holding out his hand. "300 galleons it is."
Baron dug around in his pockets and retrieved a maroon, drawstring pouch. He dug deep, producing gold coin after gold coin, counting each one of them out in Draco's palm. When he finally reached 300, Draco smiled and unlocked his door.
"Come on in," he said gesturing the man in.
Baron stepped inside, taking a moment to admire the luxe sitting room before sitting on a plush leather couch on the far wall. Without a word, he pulled out an Italian leather wallet from his pocket, his fingers nimbly retrieving a lavender and gold business card. He handed the card to Draco before relaxing back on the couch.
Draco turned the card over in his hand and read the delicate scroll on the front:
Magical Amity
Baron Dunlevy
Agent
Procurer of Social and Copulative Talent for Over 15 Years
"So you're a glorified pimp," Draco said crossly.
Baron smiled widely, folding his hands in his lap. "I prefer to think of myself as a talent agent, Mr. Malfoy. But for all intents and purposes, yes, I guess you could say that."
Draco stiffened. "It's Mr. Alverston. You must have me mistaken for someone else."
"Please Mr. Malfoy. Do you think there is one person in the wizarding world that doesn't know who you are after your parents' trials? There is no need to pretend. You're secret is safe with me." He gave an exaggerated wink.
Draco's mouth went dry. Someone had found him. He quickly began running over options in his head. He could perhaps perform a quick memory charm on the man and then dump him out on the street—but that would be too risky. Memory charms could be detected. He could just kill the man. But again, he would run the risk of getting caught. And besides, he had managed to go his entire life without uttering the words Avada Kedavra; he really didn't want to start using them now.
In short, he was screwed.
"Relax," Baron soothed. "It doesn't matter to me who you are--it matters what you can do. And from what I understand, you are quite the talented young man, Draco. With the proper support system, you could be rich."
"You mean, if I let you pimp me out? No thank you; I do fine on my own."
"Hear me out first," Baron said. "And if you don't like what you hear, I will leave you alone."
Draco thought a moment. He doubted Baron could offer him anything that would entice him to enter his employ, but just listening wouldn't hurt. "Okay," Draco said firmly. "You have ten minutes."
"Great."
Baron began by outlining the advantages of working in a structured environment, like his. You didn't have to trounce around the streets looking for prospects; clients came to you. You didn't have to worry about trying to find a place to bring your clients; all employees were housed on-site, and therefore had a bedroom readily available.
Agents did get a 25% cut, but with minimum house rates in effect, employees still ended up making more than they did when they worked on their own.
"And," Baron added, "not only is your room and board included, but we include some other…amenities. We like to ensure that our employees are always having a good time, so in the evenings we have an open bar and we also provide other, shall we say, recreational items."
Draco leaned back in his chair and began absent-mindedly drumming his fingers. Baron's offer seemed too good to be true. And over the years he had learned that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.
"So you're saying that I won't have to pay rent, I won't have to pay for coke, and I'll still make loads of money in the process?" Draco asked skeptically.
"Exactly." Baron dug through his pocket and produced a baggie with an 8-ball coke in it. "Sample?"
Draco narrowed his eyes. And although his body ached for the stuff, some part of him didn't trust the man in front of him. "You think I am going to take something from some random stranger?"
"Suit yourself," Baron said as he dumped a little on the table and arranged it into a neat line. He rolled a muggle bill into a straw, bent over and snorted the line in one clean movement. "Are you sure?" Baron asked holding the bag out to Draco. "One line won't kill you."
"Fine, just one," Draco huffed, defeated. He grabbed the bag, carefully arranged a line for himself, and then snorted it. Leaning back against the plush chair, he closed his eyes and waited for the drug to kick in.
He didn't have to wait long.
Within moments that old, familiar feeling began to wash over him. It coursed through his body, warming his veins with its delicious heat and melting his insides until he was nothing more than a big, tingling pile of mush.
It only had been a matter of hours since he had done coke last, but suddenly it felt like he was doing it for the first time. The high was more intense, more consuming than any other he had ever experienced.
"What is this?" Draco muttered as he willed his gelatinous body to sit up and snort another line.
"Only the best for our employees."
Draco managed to snort another five lines before collapsing back on the couch, a numb, euphoric mess. He drifted in and out of consciousness for what had to have been hours. Sometimes he'd get up and pace the room for a while; sometimes he'd just stare at the ceiling in a blissful daze. But regardless of what he did, Baron just sat there and watched him.
And when Draco had settled down on the couch for the last time, curling himself up into a ball and pulling a blanket up to his chin, Baron got up to leave.
"I'm heading out," Baron said as he gathered his things. "Just one quick thing before I go though."
"Sure," Draco mumbled in his half-asleep state.
"I just need you to sign this paper, you know, saying you want to work for me. Then I can send a car for you in the morning. Sound good?"
"Yeah, sure," he yawned lazily as he scribbled his signature on the long roll of parchment and drifted off to sleep.
The following morning Draco remembered very little of the previous night's conversation, and was shocked when a car arrived at 10am to pick him up and bring him to "work."
"I didn't agree to this," he yelled at the two goons that were trying to force him into the car.
"You did," one said as he unrolled a scroll with Draco's signature at the bottom. "Now come quietly or we will be compelled to use force."
Draco eventually did go with them, assuming he would be able to clear up the whole mess and go home.
But that didn't happen.
Instead he was forced to stay there, bound by magical contract to reside in that hell of place until someone bought him. And with the steep price of 40,000 galleons over his head, he didn't see that happening any time soon.
He was allowed one meal a day, was forced to fuck whoever wanted to fuck him, but worst of all, he wasn't allowed to have his wand. Baron had taken it the moment he stepped foot in that wretched house.
Draco pulled his knees to his chest, damning himself for the the millionth time for being so stupid. If he had just ignored Baron when he first came to talk to him, if he hadn't done any of that fucked-up coke, if he hadn't had signed that damn contract, he wouldn't be in the miserable mess he was in now.
Draco grabbed the mirror he had been admiring himself in, spit on his reflection, and hurled it across the room.
Yeah, at least he was still beautiful.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Harry took one last swig of his fire whiskey, relishing the way the smooth liquid burned his throat. His head swam with a pleasant, drunken warmth, which was exactly what he needed. The fewer the inhibitions the better.
What he was about to do went against his nature. He didn't break the law; he didn't have one night stands; and he certainly didn't pay people for sex.
But that was before--before his life was miserable, before he was lonely, before he felt dead inside. And this new, desperate Harry would do anything it took just to feel.
A/N: Please let me know what you think of the new story so far. I know it's kind of a lot of background info in this chapter, but I swear next chapter gets fun! So pretty, pretty please review! Reviews totally brighten my day :)