Post-War, Canon Compliant, EWE. Seventy-thousand words of pornographic discourse between two boys-turned-men that still haven't learned how to communicate like normal people - with words. Guest appearances by Pansy Parkinson, Neville Longbottom, Her...
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your mouth waters stretched out on my bed your fingers are trembling your heart is heavy and red and your head is bent back and your back is arched my hand is under there holding you up
.:...:...:.
* I *
It's not as if Draco actually needs the gold.
The fines and attorney fees the Ministry laid on his family after the war may have cleaned out half the gold in his Gringotts vault, but if you take half the Galleons from a multi-millionaire, they're still millionaires. He might've given up the hope of buying that Quidditch team he always wanted, but he was doing all right for himself. It's not as if he has to work, or anything. He really could just sit around everyday drinking champagne and hosting soirees for his wealthy friends, or tagging along with Pansy to the shops.
No, Draco Malfoy doesn't need to work. He just happens to enjoy it.
Very few people can afford him, and he prefers it that way; he isn't always in the mood. Astoria was livid when she found out — he doesn't really care about that, either, because the woman got what she wanted (a generous alimony) and gave him what he needed (an heir). He can just go to the Prophet now, if he wants to. It would be worth it, just for the amusement value. The downside being, the story would be huge. He'd be outing himself.
Still, it might be worth it — even if it ruined his record of confidentiality forever. He'd never work in this field again.
But it isn't as if he needs the gold.
So Draco Malfoy has no idea why he shows up alone on the doorstep of number twelve, Grimmauld Place just before midnight. Incredulity, disbelief, amusement — just plain morbid curiosity, perhaps. He can't honestly tell.
When the door opens, the figure behind it gives him a swift once over, shrugs, turns away and retreats down the long hall.
Draco narrows his eyes. Something twelve years forgotten stirs in his chest, causing his breath to quicken and his hackles to rise. Draco Malfoy is not shrugged at, thank you very much. Draco Malfoy costs more an hour than this entire place is worth. Draco Malfoy can leave, right now, and charge his rate anyway for time wasted.
Draco sighs and goes inside, morbid curiosity winning out over indignation every time.
The house looks nothing like he remembers, but he only saw it once, and he'd been about seven at the time. It's brighter, cleaner; the portraits and the ugly house-elf heads are gone, as is the musty smell that tends to cling to these old family houses. There's also an old motorbike parked just inside the door. The chrome looks polished and the leather upholstery well-tended. It sputters to life as Draco passes it and makes a quiet vroom vroom at his back.
