It can be addicting after a while. I'm not proud of my line of work, but I'm not afraid to admit why I started up with it and it's been twelve long years since I started. I don't enjoy the men coming in, touching me, doing all their kinks and twisted funs. But the money is addicting, and so are the drugs and smoke and the smell that is surrounding this whole building, inside out. When I started, I had no choice. I was starving. My friends were dead, and I had no money.

Every sick and indecent pureblood wizard has come into my room and had their way with me, some muttering about how I was lucky they were fucking me because I'm just a disgusting Mudblood bitch who wants a dick in her.

I've never replied to the insults, though I've bitten through my lip from keeping myself from doing so. I lie there listlessly, only moaning and crying out when they tell me.

I've long since have gotten the money I need to start a new life. Two years since then. By now, though, I'm a well-known Knockturn Alley whore, someone who will let you do anything, and I won't do a thing. Whip me, spank me, tie me up, I never complain because I feel guilty, and I want to die.

Maybe I hope that one of these days, someone will go too far and cut me too deep with a carving knife, or accidentally cut one of my veins so I'll bleed to death.

"Granger."

I turn around to look at the man behind me and I raise my eyebrow questionably.

"It's time to leave."

I don't know what makes me pick up the small sack I always said I would use the day that I would go. Maybe it's the commanding tone in his voice, the one I only heard him use once. Maybe it's the way his nose wrinkles in disgust as he looks around my room. Blood is on the walls and on the colorful drapes and furniture. Or maybe it's the way he glares at the pile of money that is on my bedside table from my last customer.

As I stand beside him, he takes off his coat and puts it over me. And when I look up at him in question, he meets my eyes with his hard cold chocolate eyes. "You're indecent to be seen in public. This will at least cover your body."

I don't reply with what used to be my customary reply, I just look straight ahead. My boss protests when he sees me leave, but the man beside me glares at him long and hard.

I know it's not because he cares about me. It's not because he loves me, or wants me to be better off. It's about him having someone indebted to him. I know the way he works, I've heard about him. It changes nothing, because whatever reason he's doing this, he's giving me the strength to leave.