Secrets of a Wixen Call Boy

                                    

                                          
Summary: Echoing in the darkest recess of his mind, Harry heard Hermione lecture on his father complex.  How, having never known his own father, he tended to fixate on older  men . . . subsequently resulting in some pretty questionable romantic  partners. Really, Harry couldn't think of a good reason not to fuck or be fucked by them.
Ship: HarryPotterxTomRiddle/Voldemort
All credit goes to milkandmoon on Ao3
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It starts like this: Harry was broke. 
With  the small inheritance his parents left him squandered, what meagre  savings Harry did have were quickly fritted away between rent, the  rising cost of living, and repayments towards his student debt. And  while admittedly he had made a habit of acquiring pretty things—designer  sunglasses, vintage jackets, an authentic Eames recliner—even cutting  back the retail therapy was clearly not going to solve the larger  problem.
Like most of his friends, Harry finished Hogwarts and  went on to complete secondary education. With a Mastery under his belt  and a trendy Islington apartment leased in his name, Harry imagined he'd  easily secure a job. If not a well paying one, something interesting  would do fine. Two or three handsome, eligible colleagues would  certainly add an element of fun too. 
People still employed Duellists . . . didn't they?
But anything that might have appealed to him seemed to be running thin on the ground. 
Hermione  was still occupied with her postdoctoral studies in Magical Law at  Oxford. Neville had taken an apprenticeship at Hogwarts. Even Ron had a  customer service role at the twin's joke shop . . . 
(A fate, Harry thought secretly, to be worse than death.)
And  then, out of the blue, Harry bumped into former Hogwarts flame Theodore  Nott in a bar off Horizont Alley. Theo was old money, and very well  connected. He knew  everyone. 
"A spot of bother?" Theo  repeated, observing Harry through narrowed eyes over the rim of his dry  martini. "I know someone that might be able to help." 
So when he  put Harry in touch with Lucius Malfoy, Harry took it for what it was: an  opportunity. What kind of opportunity? Harry really had no idea. 
Lucius sent an owl the very next day . . . he wanted to meet. 
Of  course Harry remembered Draco's father from occasional sightings at  Kings Cross Station, or Flourish and Blotts, or even once at Madam  Malkins. He always had half an eye on Draco Malfoy, always fancied him a  bit. And Lucius, with the fine lines around his eyes and the sharp,  impeccable cut of his trousers . . . Lucius was even more to Harry's  taste. 
Harry didn't respond to Lucius's owl for three days. When  he finally caved into the temptation and agreed to meet, the reply came  back almost immediately. Harry was to have dinner that evening with  Lucius and his wife Narcissa. 
Harry panicked.
He spent  hours fastidiously grooming, swapped his glasses for contact lenses,  changed his outfit a dozen times before settling on something that  stretched the boundary between sleek and suggestive. He arrived at the  restaurant early and spent his last sickle on a drink at the bar. 
Harry's  eyes darted between the gleaming gold-plated cutlery and the pianist,  softly tapping out a familiar tune. He realised that everyone in the  restaurant was significantly older than him, and definitely much better  off. 
When the Malfoy's arrived they were seated at a table in the  furthest, darkest corner. Lucius stared at Harry as Narcissa made small  talk about new legislation from the Wizengamot, and an exhibition she'd  been to see at the Tate. Just as Harry felt the weight of Lucius's  large hand settle on his knee, Narcissa's stockinged foot slid up the  inside of his leg.