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( White Lies )
Draco knew what the sound of two hundred galleons was, even if one of those galleons was in Sickles and Knuts instead of the medallion like coins like the rest of the payment. And that was how he knew without even counting that his client was two sickles short of the agreed price.
He raised an elegant brow at the man he had let take him to bed, tilting his head to the side emphatically. This man was no stranger to how Draco worked, in fact he was a regular as far as a whore's clientele was concerned but he was also something of a swindler, always trying to get away with what he could and never ponying up unless caught.
The man didn't seem the least bit sheepish when he was caught red handed and instead tossed the two sickles that made up the rest of the payment on the bed and gave him a brilliant smile, brilliant for him anyway, before leaving the home that Draco had made for himself.
He was an interesting case, not lacking in money in the least and yet always trying to rip others off of what he owed. Draco was unsure of why he did that except for possibly the thrill of knowing he was doing something "bad". Draco's ideas of bad were far more complex and severe than trying to stiff someone money but for others he supposed trying to cheat someone and therefore make something of a steal could be considered almost heinous to character.
Adrian was not a bad looking man, not in the least and Draco prided in the fact that he COULD be picky. He didn't have to live as he once had trying to put his foot in the door and vie for patrons against the other whores on the block, taking anything that would look at him. Those days were gone and Draco would kill before he let himself fall to that degradation again. Malfoys were not meant for rags and swine. Of course neither were they meant for prostitution, even at its classiest, if it could ever, in fact, reach any level of class.
No, the problem with his clients wasn't their low status or less than average looks, maybe the problem didn't even reside in his rolodex at all. He wasn't yet willing to believe that fault lay within himself though. He was, however, willing to admit that there was a problem. A flaw. It had always been a niggling at the back of his brain and at first, though necessary, it had been hard to share his body with strangers.
He felt privileged now that he could pick and choose his client base, but it still left a crawling feeling on his skin when the door to his apartment echoed shut through the now silent apartment. The moments after he was left alone were always the most dampening. The most sobering.
It didn't matter what facade he gave it, there was no way to dress it or to call it any different. A whore was a whore; it couldn't be painted any other way.
Draco ran a hand through his still damp hair from the toss in the bed that he'd had with the chestnut haired, blue eyed Adrian Vaniver; Wizarding Socialite. He hadn't really done anything to warrant his money or status, he'd simply been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. And unlike the Malfoys, he'd been fortunate to keep his family status even after the war.
Of course, the Vaniver's never felt the need to align themselves with The Dark Lord in order to gain more power and status in the world either. There were prices he'd have to pay for his Father's family decisions (and his cowardice to let them happen), prices he was still paying as far as he was concerned.
His father had died some time before the war; it had all boiled down to sporadic battles that built into the climax of the war. Attacks were made and people were sacrificed, but this dance went on creating destruction far greater in the end than an all out war would have caused.
He supposed that Voldemort wanted to prove the point that he could strike anywhere that he chose, even if they were there to meet his Death Eaters in battle they still had no time for any strategy. They merely had time to react, saving what they could but never pushing far enough to get close to him or his inner circle before he disappeared and the Ministry and Potter was left to wait and anticipate, using whatever means at their disposal to try and counteract the next offense.
It had finally come down to Potter taking a leaf out of Voldemort's book for the war to come crashing in a blaze of color from spells and carnage. He'd found a means to Voldemort's location and without so much as consulting another he'd gone and taken his personal battle to him. Things are never smooth though and war was simply inevitable.
Though it had possibly saved his life, the Ministry had been condemned (though really it seemed more like a simple slap on the wrist) for spelling Harry, without his know so, to know his precise location at all times. You'd think Voldemort would have spelled against that, but he supposed that even the Dark Lord was with his own faults.
The aurors were dispatched after him and as far as he'd heard it had left a wave of bodies to mark the evidence of battle.
After the war, it didn't matter that he hadn't participated. All that mattered was that Lucius was a Death Eater and instead of the Malfoy Estate transferring to him as it should have, the Ministry confiscated everything, even after the dark artifacts and threats were removed. Draco was to be tried for Azkaban for the mark on his arm and his mother was already facing her fate in Azkaban for aiding and abiding his father.
As if that wasn't a big enough blow to his pride, the only thing that had kept him from Azkaban was the very bane of his whole existence in the first place. The person that he was always at blows with, Harry Potter.
Perhaps the git had lost his mind during the war or even more annoyingly, felt that Draco needed him, of all people, to save him. Either reason the court found it in his favor that he should be set free, but he was not given his family's affairs back. He had nothing.
Draco Malfoy was bone dry. And worse, on probation.
He was sentenced to a year of therapies and what they liked to call "community service" but really he was sure it was just their way of trying to humiliate him further. The jobs were disgusting, degrading, and overall horrifying. He had his pride whittled away job by job, and though he never let it show he was sure it was the breaking ground that led him to this lifestyle.
It was what paved the path to his being a rentboy.
Sure, the start had been humiliating like everything else, but he was by then used to the routine and able to pull himself through, even if it meant giving up the one thing he still had left.
Draco looked to the two coins on the bed before letting his grey gaze land on the rest placed on the bedside table. The money could wait, his body couldn't.
He went to the bathroom and turned the water on as hot as he could stand, not bothering to look at himself in the mirror or to try and make any other means of pampering such as brushing the tangles from his sex mussed hair. Instead he climbed into the shower, wincing as the water instantly turned his pale, sensitive skin a bright pink.
It wouldn't stop there though. He knew that. This, too, was routine.
Draco stood under the spray, letting the harsh water rain down on him and wash away the easiest of grime that he felt before he tackled his skin with loofa and soap, scrubbing the skin until it was red and raw. Even then he wasn't sure he was clean, but for now it was all he had.
It was believed that Draco would do anything for the right price but anything was a broad term. He'd let men fuck him any way they chose, with or without lubricant. He let them play out any fantasy they desired no matter how twisted or sick it was. He gave head and even rimmed, but he never kissed another on the lips.
It was classic Pretty Woman, he supposed, he knew about televisions and movies now, having moved to Muggle London when he could no longer bare the constant reminder of who he was to the Wizarding World, but he was sure he didn't share the same sentiments that the leading lady had.
Draco didn't refuse to kiss because it was intimate or because it was some sort of proclamation of love to kiss or be kissed. He'd had his fair share of worthless kisses back in Hogwarts; he didn't kiss because kissing was personal. To allow his mouth to be ravaged by another's disgusted him far more than shoving his ass up for the taking.
It was something that he couldn't explain, it was damn near neurotic, but it was how he was. He didn't believe in love at this point in life, it wasn't something that was meant for him, it simply wasn't needed. But he did need something that was still his. Some part of his person that was unmarred and since his mind had been fucked long ago and he needed his body to make it in the world, he chose his mouth as his temple.
He'd never kissed anyone in the two years that he'd been whoring himself out and it had never been a problem. They got what they really wanted in the end.
Draco didn't come out from under the spray until the water ran cold and he was forced out or suffer the effects of a cold shower.
Life in Muggleland, as he'd come to refer it mentally, had been hard to get used to. It was just on the outskirts of the Wizarding World so it was close enough to have Wizarding clients, but just far enough away to be away from the oppressing atmosphere and the judgmental stares.
He wasn't sure if all the Wizarding World knew of his profession, but that was the beauty of it. He didn't have to know, and he didn't have to care. Despite the Wizarding clients and the Ministry checkups, his life was virtually magic free.
That wasn't exactly a means of celebration, really. There wasn't really any way that Draco COULD be a part of the Wizarding World wholly when his wand had been taken from him. Stashed away or broken, he didn't know, but he was sure he didn't want to know the exact fate of his wand. It was like losing a limb when it had been taken.
He could still use magical objects, ones that were constantly looked over when the Ministry came to call, and he could get into Diagon Alley where he could exchange his Wizard Currency for Muggle if the need ever surfaced, but his Muggle clientele usually stood firm and kept him from having to do that often.
Life was stuttered with Magic but it wasn't fluent. It never would be again. The most magic he ever saw these days was a lubrication spell that his client may utter if he were feeling particularly giving.
Draco kept his eyes from the mirror as he went about his usual primping, something he was extremely efficient at these days. He'd been good back in the day but he'd learned how to make the most out of as little time as possible. When you had more than one appointment a day it was necessary to clean yourself up and look your best before each arrival.
It was only when he had nothing else to distract himself that he had to look up at the mirror to see the whore that looked back at him. His stormy gaze flicked over his person, taking in the details of himself to make sure everything seemed to be in place.
He'd gotten a little broader since his time at Hogwarts, but his frame was still slight and rather willowy, he often wondered if that might be why men seemed to prefer him over other whores they could have their choice of. His skin was pale (if not a little pink from the attack on it in the shower), as it always had been and despite being soft, it looked it thanks to the many beautification treatments he gave it. His hair fell in a shaggy style around his face, fringe threatening to flick into grey eyes rimmed in a palette of thick, blonde lashes that would rest on his cheeks when he closed his eyes.
He supposed to the world he looked like a pearl, but he knew the secret of the artist and only saw the whore that he was in the mirror. What could he do though? He gave the mirror a cruel smile and turned his back on it, like everything else, he would not allow it to bring him down and dictate him.
He did what he did and that was the end of it.
With a towel wrapped around his waist Draco moved into his room and grimaced at the bed. Oh how he wished he could simply just wave a wand and the bed would be clean, but no, it just wasn't that simple, was it? Thank god he ran high in price or he'd spend all his money on washing the sheets alone.
As it was he had several pairs that he would change throughout the day from client to client.
He tore the sheets off the bed after placing the two sickles on the bedside with the rest of his payment, never bothering with the duvet that always got flipped to the floor anyway. He wished that he had done this before getting in the shower and stuffed the contaminated sheets in one of the many hampers in the laundry room. After which he washed his hands rather religiously, much as he'd done in the shower, scrubbing until his hands were red. Then he allowed himself to pull down a clean set and place them on the bed.
The irony of all this was that the bed was simply for show. He could never bring himself to sleep on his bed at night, even when the sheets were clean and fresh from the store, never slept on in any form. It just wasn't something that he could feel comfortable with. It set him on edge and made him feel exactly like the whore he was.
Which was why he slept on an air mattress that he kept slid underneath his bed during the day. He'd had some odd questions from the Aurors that had come to check on him after that became his arrangement for sleeping and he'd answered them simply and honestly.
"I'm not comfortable sleeping on a bed where I've fucked countless men."
That had at least shut them up.
Draco reached over to the bedside table when the sheets were in place and picked up the little black book on the bedside table, not quite what most would think, but as good as.
It certainly had names in it, but it wasn't a list of conquests in the traditional sense, it was his planner. The book kept him in line and served as a lifeline that he found himself checking several times a day. Flipping through the pages he came to the day that marked the day's appointments and groaned when the bold red lettering jumped out at him.
Just underneath "Adrian Vaniver" was the stomach dropping appointment that he always dreaded the most. A ministry visit.
Every month an auror would drop by his hole in the wall, part of probation that would likely carry out for the rest of his life, and they would prod and check to make sure that he was being a good little Malfoy, keeping in line and not trying to become the next Dark Lord Incarnate.
As if on cue there was a knocking sound on his front door that made him snap his gaze up and stare through the open door of his bedroom into the expanse of his apartment. The knock was meeker than usual, he usually got this loud, I'm-About-To-Break-Down-The-Door knock, as if he'd ignored all advances and was now being treated as a hostile.
Even still, the form of knock didn't change the hostility that he felt. He'd never be comfortable with an Auror, no matter their intentions, and it was with that reason that he decided to get up and answer the door in exactly what he was wearing.
The Aurors always put him on edge and made him uncomfortable, why not return in kind? Besides, his Slytherin side was just begging for mischief that didn't include him on his knees or back.
It wasn’t but several seconds later that the wall shaking knock (banging rather) came thundering through his apartment and twisted his lips in a sneer.
He padded through the apartment and to the door, unlocking the many bolts in place there and swinging the door open to greet the unfortunate Auror that had the job of checking up on a probate.
Karma obviously didn't take well to his ideas of Slytherin Satisfaction, however, when she decided to throw a big blow right to his face. At least she did offer a little grace and let his towel stay firmly around his waist. Of course, Draco wasn’t so sure that it even mattered. Who knew what that thing could see through?
He might have to start charging each time he came to call.