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
--------------
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.
At once, Harry understood what the Malfoy's wanted from him. But wasn't this what he had thought—no, hoped—might be happening all along? The Malfoy's were older . . . probably older than his Godfather, even . . . but they were both very attractive . . .
(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.
The first, second and third courses passed in a haze. Narcissa licked her fingers, Harry's hand on her crotch. Lucius ferreted tiny spoonfuls from his plate into Harry's mouth. After the meal, they used the restaurant's floo to relocate to the Malfoy's home in Wiltshire.
Narcissa disappeared, leaving Harry with Lucius in a small sitting room where Harry made a show of undressing. He let Lucius bend him over the velveteen chaise, push thick, oil-slick fingers inside him. Narcissa returned in a silk kimono and lit candles around the room with the tip of her wand. Then Narcissa lay down in front of Harry, her gown hanging open, and Harry ate her out as Lucius drove into him, Narcissa's fingers threading through Harry's hair as he gasped and clutched at her thighs for purchase.
Afterwards Lucius slumped forward across Harry's back, and for a long time Lucius and Narcissa kissed with Harry sandwiched between them.
Eventually Harry dressed, and Narcissa walked him back to the floo with her hand on the small of his back.
"Quite a marriage you have," Harry murmured.
Narcissa smiled, secreting something away into the pocket of his robe. "You're welcome back any time."
Harry nodded and stepped through the floo.
Back inside his Islington apartment, Harry opened the small purse Narcissa had slipped him. He was shocked to find that it was charmed feather light, expandable, and filled with shining golden galleons . . . enough to cover a month's rent.
He thought that he should probably feel violated for being used and paid for . . . but he really didn't. It hadn't been like that at all. To the Malfoy's the money meant nothing, and Harry had honestly enjoyed himself.
The idea of selling his body had been planted, watered and fertilised. From there it grew.
Wouldn't it be preferable to the daily grind of a dead-end job—pushing parchment at the Ministry or punching tickets on the Night Bus—the tedium of which Harry, a verified thrill-seeker, found almost unimaginable . . .
He thought that he could do it, could make it work.
He wanted to try.
-
"Why do you do this?" a client asked. Harry thought he recognised them as one of Voldemort's inner circle.
Harry smiled. "Because I can."
In an unexpected display of tenderness, they brushed Harry's fringe from his forehead. "There must be more to it than that."
Harry slid off their lap. "If there's no good reason not to, then why the hell not?"
"So if I told you to kiss a Dementor . . . "
"Well that depends," Harry smiled coyly, "on how much you're paying. Why?"
The client laughed, then thrust their hips into the open air. "No matter. Suck me off again, would you?"
-
An appointment always followed the same formula, without any variation.
A client would contact the agency, the agency would contact Harry, and then it was locked in. Harry generally required one hour notice . . . a few minutes to excuse himself from whatever else he may be doing . . . 45 minutes to shower, groom and dress . . . half a second to apparate or floo to the meeting place.
Harry looked after himself; he ate well, exercised, moisturised. Sometimes, depending on the brief, he'd carefully stretch himself open in the shower, mouth the incantation for an enema and squeeze his eyes shut through the sting.
His clients were almost always men, yet this was in no way indicative of what an appointment may entail.
He dabbed cologne behind his ears, tamed his wild hair with sleakeazy. Three outfits ran in high rotation; something casual, something classy, something fun. An enviable selection of shoes and jackets lined the inner walls of his walk-in-wardrobe.
Before entering a hotel, Harry always knew where to find the elevator. The trick was to sweep through the foyer with confidence, a subtle nod of acknowledgement to the staff. If he was to leave any impression at all, it would only be that of someone with purpose. Someone who belonged there.
He never appeared to be in a hurry. Finding the right door, he knocked firmly. On entering the room, he said, "Darling, hello. Sorry to keep you waiting." He was never late. Regardless of this, the client would have been eagerly anticipating his arrival.
He shrugged off his travelling cloak, sat down. If the client offered a drink, he accepted whatever they were having. He was always confident, perfectly at ease. In complete control of the situation.
He collected the money before anything else happened. He left on time. If the client wanted him to stay longer, they had to clear it with the agency.
On leaving, Harry would wet his lower lip, press close for a parting kiss, tell them, "An absolute pleasure. I hope to see you again soon."
In the foyer he nodded to the staff. Faded back onto the street outside, sent a message to his manager. If Selwyn didn't hear from him they would call the client, then the hotel. There were security measures in place . . . Selwyn understood, had walked in Harry's shoes.
Harry liked the formula, took comfort in its predictability.
x plus z always equaled y .
. . . except on the one occasion when it didn't.
-
The month prior Harry had an overnight job, sunset to sunrise. He'd recently added disciplinarian to his talents on the agency's website and—if the response was anything to go by—this seemed to be an area of expertise currently in high demand.
"Do you do this full-time, dear?"
Harry sat cross-legged on the client's back as they crawled across the kitchen floor. "No . . . I'm a Duellist."
"Are you really? Won any tournaments?"
It had been a while since Harry had competed . . . the entrance fees were hefty and he'd only just gotten ahead on his loan repayments. "I'm going to win them all."
The client grit their teeth. "Of course you will, dear."
Condescending bastard.
Harry met Ginny afterwards outside the hotel, just as the sun slipped over the horizon. She was the only one of Harry's friends that knew his real occupation—had happened upon a drawer of dildos in his apartment and drawn her own conclusions—though Harry thought that Hermione probably suspected.
"Have fun in there?"
Harry returned Ginny's smirk, hooked his arm through hers. She was dressed in Quidditch gear, ready for training.
"Sort of," said Harry. "He couldn't stay hard so we emptied the mini-bar and watched a murder mystery on BBC."
They turned a corner onto Diagon Alley and stopped outside a coffee cart.
"Look, he gave me a present." Harry took a tiny pink plastic penis from his pocket and unscrewed the testicles from the shaft. "It's a bubble-blower."
Ginny laughed and held out her hand. "Classy. Can I have a go?"
Harry took their order from the vendor and they wandered aimlessly down the alley, blowing bubbles onto the cobblestones and sipping from their paper cups.
"You reckon you'll tell Tom?" Ginny asked. "You were looking pretty serious at the game last week . . . there was a picture in the tabloids."
Harry sighed. It was meant to be a casual thing, early days. Harry wasn't looking for anything more. He hadn't even considered telling Tom what he really did for a living, but he could predict how Tom would take it: badly.
"We're not exclusive," Harry said defensively.
That was a conversation Harry usually reserved for putting a swift end to a relationship . . . having been fiercely independent from a very young age, he couldn't think of anything more stifling than the promise of monogamy.
Ginny linked her arm back through his. "Fair enough."
-
The client frowned as Harry brandished his holly wand. "Must you?" they asked.
"Yes," Harry said firmly. "Minimises the risk."
"It's just that those spells always leave a bad taste in my mouth . . . "
After a moment's consideration, Harry said, "Suppose I could give it a good scrub in the sink . . . would that work?"
The client beamed.
Harry pocketed his wand and took the large, bendy dildo in both hands to carry it towards the kitchen. He'd have to be careful to wash all the soap off, he thought distractedly, so that the client wouldn't get a taste of any residual suds when they sucked Harry's juices from it later.
-
Every morning Harry renewed the featherlight charm on the expandable purse that Narcissa Malfoy once slipped him, an homage to his humble beginnings. These days it contained:
a ballpoint pen (muggle, green ink)a mobile phone (as required by the agency) lubeextra lube a spare extra lube deodorant a packet of tissueskeys, bank cards etc (the usual detritus) dildoa matching set of three plugs, varying sizenipple clampsball gagmulti-tailed rubber whip
-
In another life, Harry imagines that his Godfather might have been a father figure to him. But the years had not been kind to Sirius, who had spent his twenties imprisoned for a crime he did not commit and the intervening years self-medicating.
"Harry!" Sirius barked over a floo-call. "When are you going to come around for dinner?"
Harry stifled a yawn behind the back of his hand. "Maybe next week . . . can I get back to you?"
"And how's the job going? Still on the lookout for a better fit?"
Harry hummed. He couldn't remember what he'd last told Sirius. Was he tutoring? Or working as a consultant? "Erm. Not bad. I had an interview the other day, actually."
(It wasn't even a lie . . . a client had asked him to play the part of a young man interviewing for the role of secretary. He actually thought the interview portion had gone rather well . . . the client had certainly sung Harry's praises as they fucked him over the desk with such force it slid across the polished herringbone floor.)
Sirius nodded. "Something will come along. Are you bringing Tom to dinner?"
Remus's head suddenly appeared beside Sirius in the fireplace. "Let us know, won't you? And I'll make something special."
Harry swallowed back a noise of irritation.
Everybody loved Tom. That is, they loved the idea of him . . . of Harry dating someone—anyone—for more than five seconds. On paper, Tom couldn't have been more perfect; clever, handsome, a rising star in the Ministry . . .
Secretly? Harry thought the best thing about Tom might be the uncanny resemblance he bore to his infamous father.
-
Harry celebrated his birthday with friends at a bar in Godric's Hollow. They commandeered three booths, and he set about attempting to fill the greater percentage of his stomach with gin.
At some point Tom joined them, dressed in a three-piece suit fresh from the Ministry. Around midnight the party moved to a nearby club. The orange glow of the street lamps reflected fragments of light from Harry's gold sequinned jacket onto the cobblestones as they marched down the main street of the village, attempting to sing happy birthday in key. But as they crossed paths with a group of well dressed wixen departing from a restaurant, the air became fraught with tension . . .
Harry felt Tom's fingers clench around his own as they lurched to a stop.
"My lord," Tom said, bowing stiffly at the waist without letting go of Harry's hand. The rest of the group quickly followed Tom's lead.
Harry dragged his eyes over the older version of Tom, so alike his own boyfriend that it was astonishing—unnatural—but for the obvious passage of time; grey strands running from his temple, crows feet planted either corner of his burgundy eyes.
Harry averted his gaze. His mouth had gone very dry. Belatedly—reverently, drunkenly—Harry whispered, "My lord."
Later back at Harry's apartment, Tom murmured, "Close your eyes." And he settled between Harry's legs—
"—fuck—"
—and licked a hot, wet path from Harry's tailbone to his perianam before shimmying up on his elbows to push inside him, and he fucked Harry slow and deep and senseless—
"—my lord—hmn—"
—until Harry's legs trembled and he fell apart underneath him—
"—mylordmylordmylord—"
—and then Tom pulled out to ejaculate on his face.
"You're beautiful," Tom said as he slid his thumb over Harry's cheek, between his lips, inside his mouth.
"Again," Harry whispered.
The next day Harry's manager rang, and Harry—his arse throbbing almost as much as his head—hobbled into the bathroom to answer.
"Darling," Selwyn purred. "I've got a very nice gentleman who loves your pictures. Are you free?"
"Afraid not, no," Harry answered quietly. He had left his wand on the bedside table and didn't want Tom to overhear.
"But he's very, very nice."
"Sorry," Harry sighed, though he really didn't feel sorry at all. "It's a no."
-
A misspent youth had instilled in Harry a deep mistrust of authority. And so when he clocked the flashy ruby robes of the Auror office hanging from the back of the client's bedroom door, he couldn't help but feel on edge.
In retrospect, he needn't have worried.
"Have you ever . . . "
"Go on," Harry prompted. He doubted whether anything could surprise him these days. "Try me."
The client was in their mid forties, balding and thickset. They stroked the stem of their wine glass nervously. "Have you ever dominated?"
Harry smiled. "Yes."
"I find that so interesting. How do you—"
"—Have you ever just wanted someone else to take control?"
The client blinked slowly.
Harry placed his glass down and stood. "Would you let me tie you up?"
A beat passed.
"Yes. But with what?"
Harry ordered them to undress and lie down on the bed. Tearing a strip of material from the hemline of their ministry-order robes, he secured their wrists to the bedhead. Then, still fully clothed, Harry crawled over their body to bind their ankles.
"Lie straight," Harry barked as the client raised their head for a better look at his arse. "If I decide you can touch me, then I'll let you know."
Immediately the client's head fell back to bounce on the mattress, a little smile tugging at the corners of their lips.
-
A short time after the encounter with the Malfoy's, Harry located a small, boutique agency in the shadows of Knockturn Alley. It appeared tasteful, upmarket and—most importantly—discreet.
After he made contact, Selwyn arranged for them to meet.
On the day of the appointment Harry spent all morning getting ready. He fussed over his hair, his outfit, his moral compass. Where had he last seen that again?
He wanted to look sexy, but not slutty . . . young, but serious . . . interested, but not too interested . . .
A receptionist walked him from the floo to a private meeting room and poured him a chamomile tea. Harry breathed in the aroma as it steeped, rallying some of that fabled Gryffindor courage he supposedly had in spades.
"Darling, hello!" Selwyn purred as they entered, taking the seat opposite. They had androgynous features and wore gender-neutral clothing. "Tell me about yourself."
"Erm."
"Your experience, darling."
Harry tried to relax his shoulders underneath his black glowmesh jacket.
"None? That's perfectly alright." Selwyn slid a sheet of parchment across the table. "Let's talk about your talents."
Harry paled in fright as his brilliant green eyes danced down the list. He had never before thought himself prudish, but . . .
Harry cleared his throat before asking, "Fisting . . . double penetration . . . are these all prerequisites?"
Selwyn eyed him shrewdly. "Only ever do what you're comfortable with, darling. But, well. You know what they say."
Harry was almost too afraid to ask. "What do they say?"
Selwyn smirked. "The greater the effort, the greater the reward."
Harry left the agency with the business card for a photographer, a complimentary month's supply of potion to prevent against sexually transmitted infections, and a new name: Henri de Jour.
-
Shortly after Harry's birthday, he contemplated telling Tom what he really did for a living. But how, after so much time had already passed, could he possibly bring it up . . .
Gently dull the sharp edges of the truth?
"Darling, I just want you to know that occasionally I do see other men for money . . . but it's really very civilised, I promise."
Or just be blunt about it?
"Darling, did I mention I'm a bit of a whore?"
Harry started to obsess, fantasising about how it'd play out . . . they'd be in Diagon Alley, walking the cobblestones hand-in-hand, the autumn leaves crunching underfoot as they exchanged stories about their week. They'd stop at Fortescue's for a treat, settle shoulder-to-shoulder inside a booth, where Harry would finally blurt it all out.
Tom would be shocked at first, of course. Then he'd nod, tell Harry that he understood. He'd kiss the top of Harry's head, put his arm around him, pull him in tight.
But no. It'd never happen like that . . .
Harry couldn't bring himself to do it.
-
"Have you ever been with a woman?" a client asked.
They were between Harry's legs, spreading him wide open.
"Yes," Harry breathed. "I don't have a preference."
"Bisexual?"
"Yes—hmn—I mean no. I don't know," Harry's voice stuttered as his eyes rolled back. When he thought he had a handle on himself, he added, "Gender doesn't really come into it. I'm either attracted to someone, or I'm not."
"Hmm," the client hummed and lowered their head. Their beard tickled his skin. "The term you're looking for is pansexual, I think."
"Is it?" Harry asked, interested. But then the client's tongue dipped inside him again, and he couldn't hold the thought any longer as his vision whited out.
Had Harry known that there was someone out there who would pay to lap at his rim for an hour—that such a perfect client existed—he imagines he might have jumped into this line of work a lot sooner.
-
Tom has the most gorgeous hands Harry had ever seen. A pianist's hands, he thought as he admired them; large, long and graceful. Harry told Tom this as they danced between his legs.
"I can't," Harry breathed, arched his back, writhed underneath him. "No more—ahm—I couldn't."
"Once more," Tom said softly, curling his fingers.
Harry shook his head. He was fucked out, at the limit of his threshold.
(He's reminded of a time he'd gotten his hand stuck inside a woman whose partner had paid him to make her come as many times as he could within the span of an hour . . . he'd had to break the suction before he could free his knuckles.)
"You won't be able to get those out again," Harry panted. "You'll have to take me into the Ministry with you—hmn—present to the Wizengamot with me stuck on your hand like—ahm—like some gruesome puppet."
Tom's eyes glimmered darkly. "Wherever do you get these silly ideas?"
-
Tom moved to his fathers house while his apartment was being renovated, and Harry found himself looking for excuses to visit.
"How was the conference?" he asked, crouched between Tom's legs.
"Dull," Tom replied, staring at the ceiling with a glazed expression. "I got an Oyster card, went on the tube . . . you know . . . like a muggle. Have you ever been?"
"Yes." Harry stroked Tom gently, pulled back the foreskin, felt the weight begin to harden in his grasp. "A long time ago. Why'd you do it?"
"I was curious," Tom replied vaguely. His breath hitched as Harry took him into his mouth. "It was filthy. Stank like piss. The muggles were packed together like sardines . . . but I liked the confinement. I liked how it made me feel . . . trapped."
Harry resurfaced for air, replacing his mouth with a hand. "I have a fantasy like that," Harry confessed, grinning. "I'm somewhere really crowded, like a train, and someone comes up behind me. There's nowhere to go, I can't move. Nobody else can see what's happening."
"Hmm. I like that."
Harry's grin broadened. "Tell you what? Let me know if you get the urge to go again. We'll make a day of it."
"You're perverse," Tom grunted, but he was smiling too as he arched his hips up, angling his cock back into Harry's mouth.
-
Harry spotted him on the dance floor weaving under beams of red light. He hadn't been able to pull his eyes from him. Asked amongst his friends, but no one seemed to know who the man was . . . no one had ever seen him before.
Harry elbowed through the bar to reach his side.
"Hi," Harry said, with a smile that spelled trouble.
Tom's dark eyes dragged over Harry's body as—slow as molasses—Harry leaned in, looked up, kissed him. Magic thrummed between them, static on their skin, as Harry felt cool fingers tickle the back of his neck, and they pressed close, melded, moved as one against the music.
Later, Tom pulled him into a quiet space with lumpy armchairs and sticky carpet, and Harry ordered them shots of tequila.
"Having a good night?" Harry asked conversationally.
Tom threw back the shot. "Best in forty years."
Harry laughed . . . Tom couldn't be a day over thirty.
"Want to get out of here?" Tom murmured, long fingers crawling under the waistband of Harry's jeans.
Harry doesn't give it a second thought. He nods.
Tom's apartment was empty—not a single item of furniture, not a light fixture, nothing —and coated thickly with dust.
Harry sneezed. "Just moved to London, have you?"
"Something like that."
Tom lit a fire, and they fucked for the first time with nothing but the dusty floorboards underneath them, every lewd noise amplified as it echoed around the liminal space.
-
A stop-gap, Harry recalls thinking in the beginning. He reminds himself of this as he readied for his very first appointment, using a neat little charm he'd learned from Lavender Brown to trim back the hair around his genitals.
He showered, dried off. Applied a double layer of deodorant, a dab of cologne. Worked sleakeazy through his hair, left to dry naturally in soft waves over his face. He stuck contact lenses to his eyes with another charm, removed his earrings, glamoured the silly tattoos that he'd collected across the years; a dancing skeleton, the eight phases of the moon, a white plastic monobloc chair.
He chose a loose top that hung off one shoulder, exposing his collarbone. Dragonhide boots. His fuck-me boots, Hermione called them, and she wouldn't be wrong . . . they'd served him well in the past. His hand trembled as he knotted the laces.
He still had fifteen minutes.
He mixed himself a negroni. They were supposed to be sober—agency rules—but Harry's always skirting rules, and one drink wouldn't hurt.
He checked his phone again, put the text to memory.
He apparated to an alleyway just off Wilton Place. Breezed through the foyer to the elevator, bumped the button for the penthouse suite. Took a deep breath, rapped his knuckles on the door.
The next morning he woke to the familiar ceiling of his Islington apartment. Made himself a cup of tea, stared at the distorted reflection wobbling inside its depths . . . did he feel any different? Should he?
Harry frowned. His own face, staring back at him from inside the cup, frowned back. Same face, same person . . . he was relieved to find he was no different than seven hours previous.
-
"I'm going to come on your face," the client breathed.
It was perhaps the tenth time they'd said so, in as many minutes.
"Yes," Harry moaned. "Do it." Elastic snapped against his skin as he pulled his hand free from his pants. He looked up at the client through thick lashes, sucked his fingertips.
The client looked away, focused on the wall behind them.
"I'm going to come on your face," they said again.
Were they really? Well . . . Harry would believe it when he saw it.
Harry writhed on the sheets some more, groaned, dipped his hand bank inside his pants.
Half an hour later, they still hadn't finished.
Harry's fingers wandered up the client's thigh. "Anything I can do to help?" he asked.
They slumped forward into Harry's arms, defeated.
"Sorry, dear," Harry said, patting their shoulder. "Maybe next time."
-
As requested, Harry went to have his pictures taken at the Savoy, overlooking River Thames. He'd been excited about the shoot, looking forward to it . . . until the photographer had opened their mouth.
"Is this what you brought to wear?" The expression painted on their face left nothing to the imagination: they were not impressed with the curation of Harry's favourite pieces. "Hmph. You would suit something less . . . whimsical . . . this isn't Wes Anderson, dear."
Harry pursed his lips.
"Here we go," they said, brushing off a faux-fur jacket. "Put this one on, then . . . nothing else, no, just this."
And that was how Harry found himself sprawled near-naked across the hotel furniture.
"And . . . relax!"
Harry grit his teeth, thighs trembling from exertion.
"You look constipated now, dear. Relax those muscles."
And, when he thought it couldn't get any worse . . .
"Is that a tan line I can see? How very pornstar of you."
Harry exhaled slowly, blew his fringe off his face. It was quite the comment from someone who had, not five minutes prior, bullied him into a pair of pink latex hot pants.
After an hour, Harry was ready to throw himself out the window into the tender mercy of the Thames.
"I'll give you the number of my salon," the photographer said as they snapped their bag closed. "They work miracles, dear."
Within the hour Selwyn phoned, purring down the line, "I'm just looking at your pictures now, darling. You look wonderful."
Harry was surprised how well his profile came together when Selwyn emailed the link for approval. He sucked on his lower lip, scrolling through the images on his phone while he waited for Ron outside Weasley Wizard Wheezes.
A sick sense of dread filled him at the thought that he may be recognised—the population of wix in the United Kingdom was certainly not what it had been—but, he scolded himself, he really needn't worry. If anyone ever happened across his profile, he doubted they would ever admit to it. Who wants anyone to know they've been browsing escorts?
He closed the browser just as Ron stumbled from the shop entrance. Reluctantly, Harry found he had to agree with Selwyn . . . the photographer had done a good job.
-
Harry saw Ginny at the gym every other day. While not a lot of ground was always covered on the treadmill, they managed to make use of the time in other ways.
"Would you and Tom ever consider having a threesome?" Ginny asked, leaning over the handles of a stationary bicycle.
Harry laughed. "Why? Are you volunteering to be the third party?"
"I might be."
"You don't still fancy me, I hope," Harry teased. They hadn't hooked up in a decade, but Ginny sporadically dropped hints—never with much subtlety—that her interest in sleeping with him hadn't waned.
Ginny gave him a withering look. "As if . . . but who else am I going to ask? You're the most amoral person I know."
"Group sex doesn't make someone amoral. If everyone is a consenting adult, then why the hell not?"
"Of course," Ginny agreed quickly with a flash of white teeth and a wink. "So how about it?"
The treadmill quivered as Harry gave up all pretence of exercise to sit down cross legged on the belt. He blew his fringe from his face, observed Ginny carefully. "It'd have to be with the right person. I don't want to complicate things."
Ginny hummed. "I've said it before . . . you ought to come clean before he figures you out."
"He's not going to find out."
"You'll slip up eventually . . . or come home with a hickey on your arse."
Harry sighed, licked his tongue over his teeth. "I can't imagine he's going to be ok with it."
"I can't imagine he has a choice." Ginny gave him a fierce look. "If he wants to be with you, then he can deal with it."
That all sounded very nice in theory . . . in practice? Harry had doubts.
"Are you done torturing that thing?" Harry said instead, kicking Ginny's bicycle so that the wheel spun suddenly into action. "I'm starved."
-
"Do either of you recognise that man?" Harry asked, hiding behind the cover of a menu.
"Nope," said Ron. "Should we?"
Harry rested his chin in his palm and muttered, "I can't remember if I've slept with them."
(With haste, Harry began to run through the inventory of every person he had ever slept with. It would take some time . . . it's quite a long list.)
"You're a menace," Hermione said, exasperated. "I don't know how you're always getting yourself into these ridiculous situations."
Green eyes blown wide, Harry feigned ignorance. "Don't know what you're talking about, 'Mione."
Ron scoffed. Then, with an unexpected attempt at diplomacy, he changed the topic. "If we were the cast of Sex and the City, who would—"
"—I'm Miranda, obviously," Hermione interrupted, and Harry had to wonder at her decisiveness, whether she had thought this through before. "Harry would be Carrie, and you're Charlotte."
"What?" Ron squawked, hands flying into the air to emphasise his indignation. "Can I be Samantha?"
Hermione said sharply, "No."
"Then who's—"
In unison, Harry and Hermione chorused, "Ginny."
-
"That was my first anal," a client told him. There was a Gringotts coat of arms embroidered on their blazer, and a plummy note to their voice. Harry wondered whether they worked with Bill Weasley . . . it was a dangerous line of thought.
"Really?" said Harry. "I'd never have known."
(It didn't particularly surprise him, if he's honest . . . there had been a lot of first timers amongst Harry's past clientele.)
The client looked him over, eyes lingering on Harry's bare arse as they said, "Well, I rather enjoyed it."
Harry's grin was all teeth. "I'd tell you it was my first time too, but you'd know I was fibbing."
"So . . . did I do alright?"
Harry's grin broadened. "You were brilliant."
"You're very kind," said the client, glancing up finally to meet Harry's eyes. "Do you have a boyfriend?"
A slow smile spread across Harry's face at the thought. "Yes," he said without thinking. "I do."
-
Harry fussed with the items, aligning them perfectly on the tabletop. Behind him, he could hear the client undressing.
"Did you bring everything?" they asked.
Harry's eyes slid over the requested items: blindfold, multi-tailed rubber whip, chain collar and nipple clamps.
"Yes," Harry answered.
A quiver in their voice betrayed the client's excitement. "I've never done anything like this before."
Harry very much doubted this was true. "I'll go easy on you."
Another lie, and they both knew it.
-
"This man," Selwyn purred into the phone, "you'll like him. He's very nice."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Sure they are," he said doubtfully. "Two hours, did you say?"
A booking of more than one hour usually meant either they wanted conversation—the boyfriend experience—or they were after something weird.
On this occasion, it turned out to be the former.
The client was old . . . not ancient, but certainly the oldest Harry had ever booked. Their hair was entirely grey, their skin had lost some elasticity. They poured Harry a glass of chilled white wine, and they spoke for a long time about music, books and modern history.
"I imagine you're wondering when we'll get on with it," the client said eventually.
Harry smiled kindly, looked up at them from where he was sitting on the floor. The client crouched beside him, and they kissed . . . tentative, feather-light . . . a first-date kiss.
Harry broke away, stood, unbuckled his belt.
"As easy as that?" the client sighed. They stood too, crowded Harry back against a table. Their hand disappeared under Harry's top to rub against a nipple.
Harry whispered, "As easy as that."
The client turned Harry around, bent him over the table, pushed his trousers down his hips. Harry felt their mouth moving against the thin fabric of his pants, hot breath blowing against his skin. Then they tugged Harry's pants aside and took him from behind.
It didn't last long.
Afterwards they lead Harry to an enormous bathtub, where they ate their way through a punnet of grapes and polished off another bottle of wine. Harry stayed a full hour past when he was supposed to go.
The client asked for his real name, and a number to contact him directly. Harry hesitated . . . it was against agency rules . . . but then again, so was the alcohol.
"You should come along on my next holiday," the client said when they walked him to the door. "We could take the world by storm."
Harry didn't think they were serious, but it was a nice sentiment.
He went directly after to meet friends at a bar. It was Saturday night, and the place was heaving . . . everybody seemed to be out.
"Working late?" Ginny asked.
Against the cacophony of sound, nobody would overhear them. "Yeah," Harry said. "An academic."
Ginny raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Single?"
"Maybe divorced . . . there were photos of a woman."
"Children?"
Harry grinned wickedly. "Yeah, but they're adults now."
Ginny swatted his arm. "Bloody hell. How old were they? Actually, I don't even want to know . . . "
"Liar."
-
As Harry was paid in cash, he often frequented Gringotts. Thankfully, the goblins—an uncaring, unfriendly bunch—never questioned why Harry was there several times a week to deposit cash into two different vaults, one of which was not his own.
Unfortunately, on the odd occasion a wix was present.
"Ah, I 'ave noticed you before," said a beautiful blonde from behind the counter. "Que fais-tu?"
"Oh," Harry fumbled. "Erm . . . I'm an artist."
He swallowed, waiting for the pin to drop . . . but the woman seemed to readily accept this explanation.
"Just finished night shift, love?" asked someone at Tesco's.
Harry placed the plastic bag of salad mix onto the conveyer belt, inventing wildly. "Yes," he said behind the dark lenses of his raybans. "I work at the hospital . . . radiology."
"Where are you off to tonight?" asked a neighbour, catching Harry on the landing outside his apartment. They looked him up and down, whistled appreciatively.
The fringe of his brown suede cowboy jacket made a satisfying swish as he turned to strike a pose. "Fancy dress party," Harry lied smoothly.
-
The client was wearing a hotel bathrobe and their hair was dripping wet. Harry walked through to the main living space where another man was seated, sipping wine. They reminded Harry instantly of Draco Malfoy—a leggy blonde with sharp, patrician features—and they were already topless.
Harry knelt down beside the blonde, removed their shoes and socks, undid the zipper of their jeans with his teeth. He'd been told that the client's boyfriend would be joining them, but something about the blonde made Harry question it . . . he seemed to know the client no better than Harry did.
They relocated to a bedroom. Harry rutted against the blonde as the client watched. Then they took Harry from behind while the blonde sucked him off.
"What do you think," Harry panted over his shoulder, "about coming all over both our faces?"
The blonde winked to him, adding to Harry's suspicion that they were another hired professional.
Afterwards Harry dug a small bottle of oil out from Narcissa's expandable purse, and the blonde gave Harry and the client massages. Definitely a professional, Harry decided as he collected his clothes from around the suite.
When the couple walked Harry to the door, he kissed them both farewell and tucked the oil into the blonde's pocket.
"Keep it," Harry told them. "You'll make better use of it than me."
The tip the client slipped to Harry was double the fee.
-
Harry was visiting Sirius and Remus at Grimmauld Place when Sirius announced that he was going to walk to the off-licence on the corner for more wine.
"I'll come with you," Harry offered quickly. "Could use some fresh air."
As soon as they were outside, Sirius passed Harry a cigarette and they sat on the front porch for a while smoking and critiquing the fashion choices of the muggle foot traffic.
"Think Remus's onto us," Sirius told Harry, scuffing his boot on the concrete.
Harry exhaled slowly. In a very casual tone, he commented, "He's been around a lot lately."
Sirius flicked his cigarette onto the pavement, squashing it under his boot. "Yeah . . . actually, he's moved back in."
The werewolf had made a habit of slipping in and out of their lives as seamlessly as the moon waxed and waned in the night sky.
"He's making an effort," Sirius added.
Harry dragged on his cigarette. "Good," he said with false cheer. "So long as he makes you happy, Siri . . . "
"Look," Sirius said quickly. He gestured towards a group of students. "Low-rise denim's back. Think I could pull it off?"
Harry scoffed. Just because Sirius could probably pull off a garbage bag, didn't necessarily mean that he should .
Grinning, Harry said, "Not a chance."
-
Hermione slipped into the cafe, taking the seat opposite. Harry caught her eye from under the dark lenses of his raybans and slid a package across the table.
Discreetly Hermione peeked inside. "This is it?"
"You won't find any finer in London," Harry promised her. "Guaranteed results, every time."
Hermione's shoulders relaxed.
Harry sipped from his coffee. "If you don't mind my asking, 'Mione . . . do you really need so much product to get through one week with the Weasley's?"
Hermione opened the box, leaned in and sniffed. "Let's be real, Harry. If Molly asks one more time when Ron and I are tying the knot, I might stab her in the eye with a butter knife."
"Did you explain how marriage is a construct designed by the patriarchy?"
"She's a boomer: it's like talking to a brick wall."
Harry blew his fringe from his forehead. "Well, these ought to buy you some good will . . . they always give Molly the giggles, she loves them. It's my secret recipe."
(It was one of those free recipes written on the purple plastic wrapper of a block of dairy milk, so simple that not even Harry could fuck it up: butter, chocolate, cream and a generous slosh of rum.)
"You're a lifesaver," said Hermione.
Harry grinned. "Anything for you, 'Mione."
-
"Darling, are you sleeping?" Selwyn purred down the phone.
Harry rubbed his eyes. "Erm. Not anymore?"
"I have a booking for you. Everyone wants you, darling. They're all going wild for you."
Harry doubted this . . . Selwyn was known for playing favourites, promoting some profiles more than others. Evidently, for whatever reason, Harry was currently in favour.
"Erm," Harry said again. "Good?"
"Wonderful, darling. I'll text through the details now."
Harry apparated to the address in Waterloo. The client—Harry thought they might have played for the League a while back—offered him a drink. Harry slowly peeled off his clothes at the bottom of the stairs, and the client watched as he made his way up to the landing.
Harry paused at the bedroom door, looked back at the client over his shoulder. "So," he said softly. "What do you want to do?"
Grinding into his back, the client pressed a wet kiss behind his ear. "I want to make love to you."
Harry closed his eyes, whispered, "Alright."
They wrestled on the bedsheets for the better part of an hour.
"What do I have to do to get you off?" the client asked, a meaty hand crawling around Harry's waist to give his cock a squeeze.
"It's complicated," Harry told them. "We'd need all night."
As a general rule, Harry never came for a client. There were several reasons for this, mostly to do with personal choice, but also stamina. These days, Harry was saving his orgasms for someone else.
The client laughed. "My schedule's clear."
"Yes, but it's not the thirteenth of the month, or a lunar eclipse, and the moon's alignment to Jupiter is off, so . . . "
"Alright, I get it. Maybe next time."
On the way out, they slipped a card into Harry's cloak. "If you ever want to catch up," they crooned, pulling back to slap his rear. "You know—off the clock."
Back in his Islington apartment, Harry took the card out from his pocket. The paper was thick, speckled eggshell with a fashionable typeface. When he considered it, he found he was not even a little bit tempted.
"I don't like it," Selwyn told Harry when he phoned. "I'll bet you a sickle they write up a review. How many times did they reach orgasm, darling?"
Harry had discovered a few websites dedicated to reviewing agencies and escorts. He'd quickly learned to stay clear of them . . . even what Harry considered to be an ideal meeting didn't necessarily guarantee a kind review.
"Erm . . . twice, I think."
"And what was he like?"
"A perfect gentleman," Harry lied smoothly. When Selwyn snorted down the line, he added, "Honestly, I had them eating out of the palm of my hand."
It was something Harry always said, whether true or not. After all, he didn't want to lose his favour within the agency, or give Selwyn any cause for concern.
-
"They want to . . . to what?" Harry exclaimed, though he'd heard perfectly well the first time.
"To pee on you," Selwyn supplied quickly. "You won't spoil an outfit, darling, they want you naked in the bath."
Was bare skin any better? Harry wasn't sure.
"A bath of what? Of urine?
"An empty bathtub, darling."
"I'm not going to do anything degrading," Harry said firmly. "I won't be taken advantage of."
Selwyn didn't miss a beat, "But it's not like that at all. No one wants to degrade you, darling . . . they'd really prefer you enjoyed it."
Harry sighed weakly.
With a significant mark-up in the usual fee, he eventually agreed. The client was middle aged, with a low centre of gravity and crooked teeth. Harry mixed them drinks—a negroni for himself, an aperol spritz for the client—and attempted small talk.
When it was time to do the dirty deed, Harry stripped and got inside the tub.
The client squinted down at him, then looked up at the ceiling fan. A few minutes passed.
"Are you alright?" Harry asked.
The client flushed. "I can't make it happen . . . I'm too turned on."
"Try thinking of something really bland. Like dry toast, or the weather channel on the wireless."
They shook their head. "I can't do it with you in the same room. You're making me hard."
Harry reached up to turn a handle, and warm water started to run down from the faucet into the bath. "How about now?"
The first trickle hit Harry's neck and rolled down his chest, under the crest of his hip. Harry held his breath.
Afterwards Harry showered while the client watched nervously. When Harry was dry, the client said, "Think I could go again now. Don't suppose you'd fancy drinking a glass?"
They shifted under the heavy weight of Harry's gaze.
"Some people say it's good for their health," they added quickly.
It took all of Harry's self control to school his features. "Perhaps another time," he lied.
Yeah fucking right.
-
"Do you want him to overhear?"
Something had delayed the renovations on Tom's apartment and he had extended his stay at his fathers.
Harry moaned into the crook of Tom's neck.
"You do, don't you?"
They were in Voldemort's office. Tom was seated behind the large desk, Harry in his lap.
Harry thought he could feel Voldemort's presence in the house . . . he wondered where he was, what he might be doing . . . could he really hear them?
"Hmn—fuck—yes."
Harry pushed his knees underneath the armrests to get a better angle.
"Would you like it if he saw us?"
Harry flung his head back, closed his eyes. He could picture it with vivid clarity. "Fuck—hmm—yes."
"Should I call for him? Invite him to join us?"
"I can't—ahm—"
Tom lifted his hand to grab a tight fistful of Harry's hair, wrenched his head forward to speak against his lips, "I would, you know . . . ask him . . . he'd probably enjoy it, the narcissistic bastard."
The thought was too much, enough to knock Harry clean off the precipice into the stars.
Later, perched on the edge of Voldemort's desk, Harry rolled a cigarette and Tom slid open a desk drawer, retrieving a bottle of Ogdens.
"Want me to fetch a cup?" asked Harry, the cigarette hanging from his lip.
"No," Tom said coolly. He unscrewed the cap, tipped the bottle back and drank deeply. When he regarded Harry again, his expression softened. "I can't stand cups," he admitted.
Another one of Tom's eccentricities, Harry thought fondly, filing the information away to sit in the expanding catalogue between seeks confined spaces and, occasionally when he thinks no-one's looking, shoplifts.
-
"Left corner by the potted monstera," Ginny hissed. "No—don't look now—I'll tell you when."
Harry threw Ginny a dark look over the rim of his mug. "Too short."
"How do you know? They're seated."
"High waisted trousers?" Harry sneered. "Believe me, I know the type."
Ginny rolled her eyes. "You've got to be joking. You can't reject someone based on the cut of their trousers."
"Why the hell not?"
Some time later, while they picked over the crumbs of a pain au chocolat, Ginny whispered, "To your right. Tall, dark and handsome."
"Hmm," Harry said, looking them over. "Not bad . . . but they're a smoker, so that's a no."
"What?" Ginny spluttered. "But you smoke too."
"Yeah, but I'm gonna quit. Besides, if someone wants an expensive and pointless hobby, it might as well be me."
Ginny sat back in her chair, sipped her coffee. "If you carry on like this, Harry, you're going to die alone."
Harry scoffed. "Hate to break this to you, Gin, but we all die alone."
-
Under duress, Harry agreed to attend a Ministry fundraising event with Ginny. They got ready together at Harry's apartment . . . Harry opened a bottle of sparkling wine . . . Ginny borrowed a studded leather jacket, straightened Harry's tie . . . for a laugh, they swapped underwear . . . then they were off through the floo.
Seated at their table was someone vaguely familiar.
"Why hello, Harry," they chirped. While the dress was doing a reasonable job of restraining her breasts, Harry didn't imagine it would withstand the duration of the evening.
Harry and Ginny exchanged a glance, and a silent conversation took place between them.
Harry: Do you know this woman?
Ginny: No. Do you think she'll sleep with me?
"Hello!" Harry exclaimed, pushing Ginny in front of him. "Have you met my friend Gin—Ginevra—Weasley?"
The wix touched a perfectly manicured hand to Ginny's arm. "A pleasure to meet you, Ginevra," she said. "Cho Chang. How long have you two been back together?"
Harry laughed as Ginny's elbow connected with his stomach.
"We're just mates," Ginny said.
Chang winked at Harry. "Of course you are."
Harry excused himself, leaving them to it. A short time later Ginny found him on the dance floor.
"How'd that go?" Harry asked.
"Not good. I think she fancies you."
"Really?"
Harry's eyes tracked the perimeter of the ballroom until they found the wix in question. Whether by actual magic or double sided tape, Harry was surprised to see that Chang's dress was still holding up.
Ginny smirked. "I don't like your chances, though . . . "
"Why's that?"
"I said you'd only fuck her if we did it together."
Harry rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."
Ginny laughed. "Whatever. She's not your type anyway."
"Who's my type, then?"
Exasperated, Ginny said, "Tom."
-
Harry poked the package with the tip of his wand, then spun it around in a slow circle on his kitchen bench. The delivery owl had immediately taken flight, and he had not been able to locate a note from the sender.
Inside the mystery package Harry found a selection of expensive cheese and quince paste, arranged artfully on a little wooden board.
Harry blew his fringe from his forehead, then moved across the kitchen towards the bin . . . he wasn't naive enough to eat anything sent from an unknown source, no matter how lovely the arrangement.
He slid everything off the board into the bin, then paused and turned the board over in his hand. He realised that it looked exactly like a paddle . . . bit of a fancy one, too, made of hardwood with smooth, rounded edges.
Harry looked down at the bin, then back at the board.
Well. Who was going to know?
It was a more welcome and unexpected gift than he's had in ages.
-
The client opened the door, then disappeared into the bathroom. Harry noticed that everything was very clean . . . almost too clean . . . there had to be a house elf hidden away somewhere. Inside the bedroom Harry saw a large mirror suspended from the ceiling.
"No need to be nervous," the client said, treading quietly down the hall on socked feet.
Harry blinked. "I'm not," he replied honestly.
"Hmm. I can't quite figure you out."
Harry unbuttoned his shirt, goosebumps erupting over the pale stretch of skin exposed from his collarbone to his navel. "Really? Most people say I'm an open book."
(It's not really true . . . Harry had become a very good actor.)
"What is it that you do again?" Harry asked conversationally.
"Psychoanalysis."
As they undressed, the conversation flowed on to evolutionary biology and the role of pheromones in attraction.
"The better you like someone's scent," the client said, "the greater your chances of having children."
"I like the way you smell," Harry grinned. "But, given the anatomy we have to work with, I don't fancy our chances of procreating."
The client laughed, and they held Harry open as they both watched their reflections—mesmerised—in the mirror above.
While Harry clocked more blowjobs per week than he'd given throughout the entire duration of his double degree in duelling and defence, it was anal sex which he saw as the coveted talent on his profile.
Everyone wanted anal.
Harry could recall a time, not that long ago, when no one even said the word out loud . . . now it was everywhere, unavoidable.
He had been introduced to the act by former flame Theodore Nott. Theo had known all the tricks . . . by the time Harry was prepped and ready to go, he'd been begging for it.
Evidently, other people had caught on too.
When anal finally made a mention on Sex and the City, even Ron and Hermione had shrugged.
"So what?" Hermione had said in a bored voice. "We've been doing that for ages."
But Harry had to draw a line at his Godfather explaining with clinical precision the shape and location of his prostate.
"I've got to go," Harry had said quickly, wide eyed. Throwing a generous heap of floo powder into the grate he lied, "Tom's expecting me."
Not missing a beat, Sirius barked a reminder, "Ask Tom along to dinner!"
Harry blinked, coming back to the present as the client eased in another inch. He caught the client's eye in the mirror, and they both smiled.
-
Harry had ten minutes to kill before meeting with a client and, with nothing else to do, found himself strolling Greenwich Park in a bespoke white linen suit.
As he passed under the low hanging branch of an elm tree, a man stopped in his tracks. "My god," he said. "You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen."
Harry barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "Oh . . . thank you?"
"You're too beautiful to be real," the man continued. "Are you a figment of my imagination?"
Harry laughed. "Maybe. See you around."
-
Tom asked Harry on an actual, proper date. Like the movies, proper: flowers, chocolates and a posh dinner out.
Harry hadn't been asked out on a real date in what felt like an age . . . and there was really no reason why it shouldn't have been a very pleasant evening.
Perhaps it was one too many glasses of wine . . . perhaps it was the music playing on the wireless at just the right beat to send Harry's head spinning . . . perhaps it was the expectation he'd unknowingly placed upon the date.
Whatever the reason, Harry fucked it up by moving from the first brush of lips straight into Whore Mode. And Tom got the encore performance; the full-on, sweat-soaked, bed-rattling, neighbour-waking, deep-throating, dirty-talking, come-on-my-face-baby works.
Afterwards Tom had fallen straight asleep, but Harry—mortified by what he'd just done—couldn't even close his eyes.
What was the likelihood that Tom thought any of it was authentic?
In the morning Harry rose early, scribbled a note on the pad of parchment by his bedside table, and fled. He had never felt like such an idiot.
But throughout the day, his embarrassment faded . . . he couldn't stop thinking about Tom's lovely hands, intertwined with his own underneath the table . . . Tom's long fingers, combing through his hair . . . the taste of Tom's skin, a fold of it between his teeth, the scent of stale air and something metallic.
Was he developing feelings for this weirdo?
. . . well fuck.
-
Harry returned from a lunch date with Ron and Hermione to find he'd missed three calls from Selwyn.
"Sorry I missed you earlier," he said, voice muffled as he pressed the phone between his cheek and shoulder to shrug free of his sherpa jacket. "I was out, forgot to check my phone."
"Not to worry, darling," Selwyn purred. "You had a booking."
"Anything interesting?"
"A very nice man. He's called before . . . always asks for you."
Harry sighed. "'Spose they went with someone else?"
"They did. Maybe next time, darling."
-
"You got any biscuits?" asked Ginny, following Harry into the kitchen. Her brown eyes widened comically as they zeroed in on the wooden paddle, resting beside a hand crafted ceramic bowl gifted from Luna last Yule.
When Harry reemerged from the pantry with a packet of hobnobs, Ginny was grinning wickedly, slapping the board against the palm of her hand.
"Got some new kit?" she asked.
Harry arched an eyebrow. "It's a cheese board, you amoral sicko."
Ginny smirked. "Where'd you get it?"
"Came in the post . . . dunno who sent it, actually." He dodged expertly around Ginny as she swung the paddle at his rear. "They didn't include a note."
"A secret admirer? Who d'you reckon it is?"
Harry opened the packet of hobnobs with his teeth and threw himself down onto his Eames recliner. He hadn't really given it a lot of thought.
-
Wrapped in a flimsy cotton bathrobe, Harry opened his apartment door to find one of the neighbours standing on the landing. In one hand they held a single red rose.
"Erm," they said ineloquently, and thrust the flower underneath Harry's nose. "This isn't from me, by the way."
Gingerly, Harry took hold of the stem. "Who's it from, then?"
"Some bloke. Asked me to pass it onto you."
Harry blinked. "What did they look like?"
The neighbour frowned, scratched at the top of their head. "Erm. I dunno . . . pretty normal, I 'spose."
How unbelievably helpful.
Harry smiled thinly. "Well . . . thanks."
Behind the closed door of his apartment, Harry brushed the velvet-soft petals up against his lips. He let his eyes flutter closed, inhaled deeply as something warm gathered and pooled low in his stomach.
How had he ever thought that romance was dead?
-
The client was handsome, bearded, broad shouldered. Something about them landed the wrong way, set Harry's teeth on edge. They tucked an envelope into Harry's back pocket, groped his backside for a moment, then lumbered across to the hotel minibar.
"Red or white?" they rasped across the room.
"Whatever you're having."
Harry had barely taken a sip when they pushed him roughly onto the mattress. He slid his glass to the bedside table, looked up to see the client had already removed their pants. Harry didn't like their brutish, forceful manner . . . as he unbuttoned his robe, he discreetly tucked his wand underneath the pillow.
Harry shuffled to the edge of the mattress, took the client—thick, hardening—into his mouth.
But they wanted none of that.
Grasping Harry's shoulders in their huge hands, they pushed him back again, spread his knees and sunk straight in, hilt-deep. They drove into Harry this way for half an hour, Harry pinned underneath them. It was all Harry could do to make encouraging little noises in the hope of expediting the process.
Afterwards the client didn't want to be held. Didn't seem to want Harry anywhere near them.
Harry dressed quickly and left.
It wasn't until after he had showered and crawled underneath his own bedsheets that he allowed himself to relax.
-
Harry was in the bath when Selwyn rang.
"I've got a very nice gentleman for you," Selwyn purred. "Can you be ready in half an hour?"
"Half an hour?" Harry parroted. He sat up quickly, sloshing water over the edge of the tub. "I need more notice than that."
"Do you want the job, darling?"
Harry swallowed . . . it would mean a deviation from the usual formula. But what was fifteen minutes, really? He could make that work.
"Yeah, I can do it."
"Shit, shower and shave, darling. I'll text through the details now."
Harry pulled the plug out from the tub, cursing Selwyn. Before the water had finished draining, he was second guessing his decision to accept the appointment . . . he felt rushed, flustered.
With only one minute to spare, he lurched through the hotel towards the elevators. Smashed the button for level thirteen. Tried and failed to pat his hair flat.
Finding the right door, he knocked firmly.
A minute passed.
Just as he was readying to knock again, the door clicked open. Harry smiled, words already flowing, "Darling, hello. Sorry to keep you . . . "
The sentence died on Harry's lips.
On the other side of the door stood Lord Voldemort.
-
"Is everything all right?" asked Ginny, the wheels of her exercise bike spinning to a slow halt.
Harry flopped down onto the bike beside her, propped his forehead on the handlebars and closed his eyes. "S'fine," he mumbled.
"Liar. What's happened?"
Harry exhaled slowly. "I reckon Tom and I are done."
Ginny made a sympathetic noise at the back of her throat. "Just between us," she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "I always thought he was a bit ugly."
She's a good mate, Ginny is.
"Yeah," Harry nodded. "Stupid too."
Ginny wrinkled her nose. "Smelt funny."
"Hopeless in bed." There was a bitter taste in Harry's mouth as he chewed the inside of his cheek.
Ginny kicked Harry's stationary bicycle. "You done torturing this thing? I was thinking, if you reckon it'd help, I could take you home and piss on you."
"Ha ha."
-
Harry squeezed onto the threadbare sofa between Ron and Hermione, cradling a huge tub of ice cream. He passed them each a spoon, and Hermione turned on the television just as the opening credits of Sex and the City rolled onto the screen.
"Is everything alright, Harry?" asked Hermione, warm brown eyes dancing from the ice cream in his lap to the birds nest on his head.
"Thinking about taking a holiday," Harry muttered. It was all he'd been able to think about. Get out of town, clear his head. Put the whole disaster behind him.
"Where?" asked Ron.
Harry shrugged, shovelling a heaped spoonful into his mouth. Ron and Hermione exchanged a look over the top of his head.
"We'll come too, Harry," said Ron.
"What?"
"On holiday. We'll go with you, wherever you're going."
"No—" said Harry quickly. He hadn't counted on this, doesn't really want anyone to witness him wallowing . . .
"We're with you whatever happens," said Hermione quietly. Her head landed on his shoulder, followed by Ron's on his other side. "You know that, don't you Harry?"
Harry sighed as his traitorous heart lifted at the prospect . . . oh well, he thought.
Misery loves company, after all.
-
They arrived in Spain and booked into a hotel on the riverbank. Harry pulled a pair of headphones over his ears, followed his feet down the river towards the sea.
He bought sangria from a street vendor, sat on a plastic chair underneath the shade of a striped umbrella.
Tried not to look like a tourist.
Tried not to think of Tom . . . or Voldemort.
Failed spectacularly on all accounts.
-
They took an international portkey to Italy and rented a small flat within smelling distance of the fish market. Harry rose with the sun and—having promised Hermione breakfast—ventured outside into the heat.
In a patisserie, he stood on his tiptoes to reach a colourfully wrapped cake . . . but the object of his desire sat stubbornly just outside his reach.
"Can I help?" asked a member of staff.
"Could I please have one of those?"
"That depends . . . can I have one of you?"
Harry grinned. "No, sorry. I'm not for sale."
-
"Why are people such dicks?" Harry asked a man at a bar in Croatia.
"In my experience, all people are horrible . . . it's an inherently human trait."
Harry frowned into his drink. "But why? Why are we like this? Why can't we be nicer?"
"I suppose we don't know any other way."
They drank in silence for a while before Harry confessed, "I slept with my boyfriend's dad."
It felt good to tell someone, to say it out loud. Cathartic.
To Harry's surprise, the man laughed. "Was it any good?"
The tips of Harry's fingers crept underneath the hem of his top, finding the spot just below his navel where he could still feel the phantom touch of Voldemort filling him up. He blew his fringe from his forehead, licked his teeth. His heart did a little flip-flop as he heard himself admit, "It was brilliant."
-
On their last night abroad in Rome, they stayed in a small, dingy hostel and ventured out late in the afternoon for gelato.
They walked past a fountain, along a river, over a bridge. When Harry felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, he let Ron and Hermione amble ahead.
"Darling," Selwyn purred. "I've got a booking for you."
"Terribly sorry," Harry told them. "I'm not back until tomorrow."
"He's a very nice gentleman, darling," Selwyn continued, unperturbed.
"Can't do it," Harry repeated firmly. "I'm not in London."
"Where are you, darling? I'll send a portkey."
Losing the last thread of his patience, Harry snapped, "Do you reckon they want to marry me? Someone else will do just fine."
Silence echoed down the line.
"I think," Selwyn said coolly, "that you ought to take this job more seriously, darling."
"I do—" Harry started, but it was too late . . . Selwyn had ended the call.
-
Only one of Harry's clients—the one with the adult children—had his real name and phone number.
"Did you quit?" they asked directly upon ringing. "Spoke to the agency yesterday, they said you were away indefinitely . . . "
"What?" Harry said. "I mean, I was on holiday . . . but now I'm back."
The client sighed, obviously relieved, and offered to book Harry privately.
Harry glared at his unpacked suitcase.
"Let me think on it," he lied.
Hanging up the phone, Harry loaded the agency's website and scrolled through the escorts . . . it did not come as a surprise to see that his profile had been significantly demoted.
Ah.
So this is what it felt like, Harry noted despondently, to fall out of Selwyn's favour.
-
The inevitable summons came on the leg of an unassuming ministry barn owl.
Harry dabbed cologne behind his ears, tamed his wild hair with sleakeazy. He dressed provocatively in fuck-me boots and a sheer top that clearly showed the outline of his nipples. Harry was almost certain that he was about to get dumped, but that didn't mean Tom wouldn't regret it.
On the dot of seven he stepped through the floo into Voldemort's receiving room, where a house elf waited to lead him towards a formal dining area.
"My lord," Harry said softly, bowed low.
Green eyes darted from Voldemort to Tom as he took the seat set between them. It occured to Harry for the first time as he caught Tom's eye that his boyfriend knew—has always known—his entire game.
A slow, almost reptilian smile crossed Tom's face.
Just as the entrée snapped into existence, Voldemort reached across the table to take Harry's hand and—simultaneously—Tom's bare foot grazed the inside of Harry's leg.
Harry's head spun.
It dawned on him like a kick to the teeth that both Tom and Voldemort wanted him . . . and that they didn't mind sharing.
He thought that he should feel repulsed by the idea. That it should make him sick.
And yet . . . it really didn't.
Because, if he was perfectly honest with himself, Harry knew that he wanted them both too. Wanted them both so much that he ached for it, felt it in the marrow of his bones.
And, really, why should any of them be denied?
On a long exhale, Harry blew his fringe from his forehead.
When the last dish had been cleared, Voldemort had him right there on the dining room table where Tom's dessert plate had—moments before—sat between delicate silver cutlery.
Tom, still sipping an aperitif, watched on with undisguised interest.
Later in Tom's room, Harry made a show of undressing. The bed dipped as he shifted his weight across Tom's thighs, leaned down to unzip Tom's trousers with his teeth. He planted a kiss on either one of Tom's hips, worked the material down Tom's legs.
After sucking him for a few minutes, Harry paused. "Tom," he breathed, green eyes glancing up. "Have you been sending me gifts? Cheese, flowers, that sort of thing?"
There was a look of incredulity on Tom's face that read clearly: I'd never.
"No," Tom said slowly, scornfully, drawing the word out. His dark eyes fluttered as Harry spread his legs wide, tucked a pillow underneath him. Then, almost an afterthought, Tom admitted, "It may have been one of my younger brothers . . . they're a jealous sort. Petty."
Harry peeked between the soft skin of Tom's round cheeks. He was pink, tender, hairless. "You have brothers?"
"Several. And a sister . . . " Tom's voice trailed off into a low hiss as Harry licked around his rim. "But I think of her more as a pet."
Voice muffled against Tom's skin, Harry chastised, "Don't be sexist."
"She's a snake."
Harry leaned back on his elbows, saying just before he took Tom back into his mouth, "I'm sure she's perfectly lovely."
Tom huffed, drew in a long breath through his teeth. "Come here," he murmured. Long fingers wrapped around Harry's arm, hauling him up against Tom's chest.
When they finally settled underneath the sheets, they were almost instantly unconscious.
-
"How should I explain the gaps in employment?" Harry asked Ginny as they poured over an old copy of his CV.
"Personal reasons?" Ginny suggested around a mouthful of hobnob.
"What's a personal reason?"
Ginny swallowed. "You don't have to elaborate—that's personal . Geddit?"
"This looks alright," Hermione said later that week. She was holding a copy of the Daily Prophet open at the jobs spread. "Are you organised, self-motivated and dedicated?"
"Dedicated to what?" said Harry sourly. "Fetching coffee and filing parchment?"
"Well," said Hermione, glancing up, "everyone's got to start somewhere. What would you say your strengths are?"
Harry slumped low in his chair. "Sucking dick?"
"Hmm. Anything else?"
"I'm pretty, and I can throw a mean curse."
Hermione smiled, slid his CV closer. "We can work with that. There's a tournament coming up in Bulgaria . . . are you going to enter?"
Harry smiled. He'd already paid the entrance fee.