hackthis_archive | Trade

TRADE

A Harry Potter AU X-over in ~~Eight~~ Nine Parts, m/m m/f, G to NC-17
Because everyone's got to make a living

Trade

Chapter I

The whole business started with a murder. Not that the murder had anything whatsoever to do with Draco or Malfoy Escorts, Limited, or anyone associated with anyone Draco had ever interacted with, but that, according to his solicitor, was not the point.

The murder in question had occurred on the very fringes of the escort 'society', meaning it was a rather dodgy back alley deal, and had only been a back page item in The Guardian. It was enough, however, to make Severus Snape nervous, and when his solicitor was nervous he made Draco's life insufferable.

The police had said it was a routine rentboy/punter transaction gone wrong -- inasmuch as prostitution was ever a routine job -- but Draco was not one to dwell on other people's sordid matters unless they were entertaining. Murder was not entertaining.

Shifting in the plush velvet chaise, Draco tilted his head slightly and pretended to be listening to whatever it was Severus was so hacked off about. The ice cubes in his gin and tonic were beginning melt, watering down his Tanqueray, and his mind was busy with various tasks that needed to be attended to: Sunday lunch with his mother at The Dorchester, a seasonal fitting for the escorts before Ascot, a bespoke fitting with Ozwald Boateng for himself -- and he was out of tea and needed to stop by Waitrose.

Glancing over Severus' left shoulder, he took in the sparse clientele of a lazy Tuesday afternoon. Rosie was working the bar, as she always did, her dark curls bouncing around her face as she wiped the bar down vigorously.

There were various ones and twos scattered about, and Draco took notice of a man attired in the latest Burberry before drawing his attention back to the meeting at hand.

"... will turn you out of house and home!"

Severus' controlled, linear attempts at ranting made it rather easy to pick up the thread of the conversation. "Severus, we run a respectable business. My escorts do not run in the streets like common street trade, so I'll thank you to stop comparing them to some guttersnipe."

They had had this conversation before; as a matter of fact, Draco could remember his mother having this conversation with Severus when she was still the madam of Malfoy Escorts -- but all the reassurance in the world never seemed to work on Severus Snape.

It was tiresome. "Everything we do is above board," said Draco.

"Everything you do is as murky as the Thames. Mark Thatcher would be less suspect."

Draco narrowed his eyes. Being compared to the son of Margaret Thatcher, who'd had questionable dealings with supporting coups in third-world countries, was not on. "I'll thank you to remember who pays for your membership to the National."

"Tell that to people at Inland Revenue," Severus said scowling at the brandy snifter he held between long fingers.

"According to you, Inland Revenue has been after us since I was still in nappies," Draco raised a slender eyebrow. "I never took you for a conspiracy theorist."

"Do not take that tone with me, Draco Lucien."

Draco smirked. The Burberry model was looking in his direction, but he wore the most dreadful black eyeglasses. Meeting his admirer's eye, Draco held his smirk for a second too long before taking another sip of his watery G&T.

Rentboys had their place in the class structure -- the bottom rung. The escorts provided by his business were at the top of that same class structure. Not that Draco would ever admit that his boys were in any sort of class structure whatsoever.

Malfoy Escorts were an entity unto themselves -- escorts and nothing more. They provided a service, attending society functions from weddings to Ascot to everything in between. All escorts were of the best breeding and in possession of the best educations money could buy. Between the 25 escorts available they spoke eleven languages, including Urdu and Swahili, and had been to every continent, including Antarctica, which Luna had called 'a pissing great big piece of ice' and not worth the trip.

In regards to Severus, after many years at his mother's knee, watching her run the business, Draco had learned it was generally in his best interests to keep the family solicitor in good humour, which was the only reason he was tolerating this afternoon meeting at Madam Rosmerta's Red Room.

Snape was a brilliant solicitor -- shrewd, quick and incredibly cunning -- which was exactly what he was paid to be. He'd been in service to the Malfoy family for almost thirty years now, not only as a solicitor and advisor but also as a confidant and family friend.

In the absence of his father -- who his mother had never been willing to talk about, apart from a vague mention of a Russian diplomat -- Severus had been a rather strong father figure in Draco's adolescence. Even after things had cooled off between Severus and Draco's mother, he'd remained in an official capacity as well as several unofficial ones.

Draco's mother had said more than once that she never worried, because that was what she paid Severus for -- and indeed he did worry enough for all the Malfoys combined.

But he worked for Draco.

Rubbing at his jaw, Draco could feel a few tiny hairs from where he'd done a slapdash job of shaving, which he would have to blame on someone later. Blaise seemed the likely culprit as he'd rung while Draco was still shaving.

"I understand your concern," Draco began, setting his drink down on the mahogany end table at his elbow. "I understand all your concerns -- but my escorts do not run in those circles. You know this; I know this, so I'll thank you to stop acting as though I have no idea what I'm doing." Draco was unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

Severus coloured. "I know nothing of the sort."

"You're not going to pull that proper business with me," Draco said. "I know Pansy sent you one of her girls last year for an engagement you had."

"That was a society wedding, attended by Prince Edward," Severus sat upright stiffly. "I only used an escort because your mother was feeling poorly."

"You used an escort because my mother is still peeved that His Royal Highness wanted a discount for using her girls before he had Sophie," Draco countered.

Severus drew his mouth into a thin line. "We are not running a charity here," he said pointedly. "This is not St Francis of Assisi."

"My sentiments exactly," Draco said triumphantly. "We're running a business, a well-established business. We all but have the royal seal on our stationary. We are not going to meet a messy end at the hands of Inland Revenue."

Severus opened and closed his mouth, twice, before choosing to take another sip of his brandy. "I still think it prudent to have another audit of the financial records."

"We just had an audit last year," Draco protested. "Do you know how difficult it is to track expenses for twenty-five escorts?"

The smile Severus gave Draco would have made a lesser man very afraid. At the very least it would have made someone else's blood run cold -- it raised a solitary hair on the back of Draco's neck. "Respectable businesses must have their finances in top-tier order at all times. You wouldn't want your mother to think you were slacking, now, would you?"

Draco couldn't help the scowl that crossed his features. "Fine, have it your way. Phone Blaise and have him start pulling things together."

Another man would have gloated, but Severus' only hint of triumph was the turned-up corners of his mouth as he took another sip of his brandy. "A wise decision I think -- worthy of a Malfoy."

Draco just rolled his eyes. The Burberry model was looking at him again. "I don't suppose you've heard anything from Creevey?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly and fixing his solicitor with a piercing look.

It was Severus' turn to look slightly ruffled. "Obviously if I had, I would have mentioned it immediately."

Draco picked up his G&T, took another sip, and set it down again in disgust. "Who does someone have to fuck to get a decent drink around here!" he said bitterly.

Severus coloured slightly, even as Rosie magically appeared by Draco's elbow. "I've heard it helps to be nice to the landlady," she said, taking his drink away with a tsking noise.

Draco closed his eyes and pinched his nose.

He could've done something else after university –- like being an operative for MI-6. But no.

He'd wanted to do something easy with his life –- like run an escort service.

The one day he had left the flat without an umbrella was inevitably the one when it would rain, and there was a light drizzle when the train pulled out of the tunnel at Swiss Cottage, enroute to Finchley Road.

Draco briefly contemplated switching to a southbound train to go to Camden and see Blaise or possibly taking the tube back to work and smiting everyone. Anything to avoid going out in the rain in his latest acquisition –- a Zegna suit that still smelled of tailor's chalk and the sandalwood moisturiser he favoured.

He had turned down Severus' offer of a shared cab ride, because he simply couldn't bear the thought of any more Inland Revenue talk –- but now he would have to try and hail a cab in the rain or wait for the 13 or the 82 or something to stop in front of the off-licence around the corner.

It was times such as these that he almost regretted not having transportation of his own. He had tried a car service before, but had wound up walking off without his driver more than he had used him. He had almost been persuaded to take a Vespa for a test, but then Cedric had crashed his around the corner from his flat in Holland Park, and Draco had gone off them altogether.

After sorting out Cedric's hospital bills, he had also docked his pay for doing something so foolhardy. Draco couldn't have his escorts taking those sorts of risks.

Blaise had been after him for ages to get a car, but Draco hated driving in London. It made him homicidal, and on occasion, suicidal as well. Everything was constantly blocked off; besides it took an hour to travel what would be five minutes by tube.

Nevertheless, there were days when he swore he would break down and buy a car, generally after being trapped on the Northern Line, in the tunnel, during rush-hour, holding onto a strap with 200 other people while some drunken tart tried to chat him up or people discussed Arsenal's prospects loudly around him.

As Draco fervently supported Chelsea, anything regarding the mere existence any other team was tantamount to having his fingernails dug out with a soup spoon. He had season passes and twenty years of away kits to show for his Chelsea dedication. He also ran an escort service, and saw the same amount of action as any professional footballer. He'd even shagged one or three.

When the train stopped, Draco grabbed a paper left on a seat and used it to cover his head. Taking the stairs two at a time, he soon found himself at the mouth of the station, waiting at the traffic lights for the light to change, attempting to make a folded copy of the Standard cover most of his 6' frame.

He tossed the damp paper in the rubbish bin outside Waitrose and made short work of gathering together a packet of tea, a carton of whole milk, a packet of rashers and a loaf of bread from the bakery. It wasn't the healthiest meal, but he could always grab a curry later if he was still hungry.

The girl working the checkout reminded Draco vaguely of Angelina, and he was digging in his pockets for his Barclaycard when his mobile went off.

Attempting to juggle the phone and his wallet, Draco handed the girl a handful of notes and answered the phone. "Draco Malfoy."

"Draco, it's Neville."

Draco pinched his nose, even as the cashier tried to hand him his money. "I should think I know who you are by now, Neville –- however, now's not really the best time," he said, trying to juggle twice as many items now.

"I know," Neville began, "but I wouldn't ring unless it was important."

"I think your definition of what's important and my definition aren't in the same dictionary," Draco said stepping towards the windows to allow the person behind him to pay. "I told you I was taking the afternoon off -- which part of that escaped you? Can't Blaise sort out whatever it is?"

Draco could practically hear Neville hedging down the line. "Blaise said he wanted no part of this and that I had to ring you."

Draco made a mental note to sack Blaise. "You tell that lazy prat that I said –- never mind, I'll tell him myself when I kill him. What is it?"

"Well, it's Mr. Fudge..."

Draco set his carrier bag on the ground and rubbed his temple. Cornelius Fudge was one of Malfoy Escorts' oldest clients; he was also one of the most tight-fisted bastards Draco had ever come across. Dealing with Fudge was always a precarious situation as his seal of approval had brought M.E., Ltd a great amount of business.

Nonetheless, Draco was now on a tear to wean Malfoy Escorts off its more conservative clients, to make room for younger, more open-minded clientele, such as Terrence Higgs, who was terribly free with his money, and Fleur Delacour, who had been known to pay a 400 percent mark-up of fees just to procure whomever she sought at whatever moment she sought them.

Neville's soft Dorset accent carried on. "He wants to schedule both Hannah and Millicent for the same event, but Millicent has already been booked by Ernie MacMillian for that particular evening, and –"

"You don't want to tell that greedy coffin dodger no."

Neville sighed. "Would you?"

Draco could see where Neville was coming from, which was obviously why he had left Blaise in charge. He was going to hear about this later on, loudly and at great length. "Have you talked it over with Pansy?" he asked. What was the point of having Blaise and Pansy acting as his agents if he couldn't have a sodding afternoon off?

"Pansy said she thought Mr. MacMillian might be willing to accept a replacement escort as long as you were the one to make the phone call."

"Why me? Why can't Pansy ring him herself?" Draco didn't even realise he had raised his voice until he caught an elderly lady casting a disapproving eye in his direction. He scowled back at her, smirking to himself when she turned away. "Isn't that what I pay her for? I thought we were running a business here!"

"She would have, I'm sure -– but she's currently dealing with Ms. Umbridge and –"

Draco's head began to throb with tension. "Neville, I know I'll regret asking this, but why is Pansy dealing with Dolores when I left Blaise in charge of the office? Is it too much to expect that someone -- anyone -- can take responsibility for just a few hours?"

Draco looked around the store, not really paying attention to what he was seeing. Women with prams, older men with their wives, it was all depressingly mundane -– and here he was trying to sort out the Duke of Ottery St. Catchpole with two escorts for his shrivelled up needs. The old fart would probably fall asleep before the girls could even open a bottle of champagne.

Draco's stomach made an odd gurgling noise –- he was entirely too young to be developing an ulcer, but his GP had warned him about his stress levels. He was twenty-five. He didn't need this sort of nonsense. He was trying to run a business; but this was the sort of drama better suited to love affairs and marriages. After four years of training to run the blasted business, and the three years he'd actually been running M.E., Ltd, it seemed as though he didn't have time for a relationship with another person because he was too busy having a relationship with his company.

One worthy of Coronation Street.

"... and then he left."

"Could you repeat that for me again, Neville?" Draco said, catching the eye of a young girl in tracksuit bottoms. She was quite fit, but Draco averted his eyes when a sticky-fingered toddler began yanking on her shirt urgently. "Who left?" he asked

"Blaise left."

"Blaise left? Where is he? Why didn't you start with the important bit?!" Draco's tone rose audibly with each successive question, until he could hear himself losing his rag

"I did," Neville protested. "I said Ms. Umbridge came by the office…"

"In person?" Draco's skin grew cold at the thought of that odious, toad-esque woman in his lovely South Kensington office.

"Yes, she said she was in the neighbourhood..."

"Trolling for boys half her age." Draco interjected under his breath. It was terribly bad form to talk ill of one's clients, but Dolores Umbridge brought out the worst in Draco. She was a high-ranking official in the current government, which made it imprudent to ban her as a client, but she made his boys nervous, and Draco loathed being in the same room as her. Blaise typically dealt with her, which meant today must've been a horror.

"...and then she propositioned him, and he said --"

"That Harpy propositioned Blaise?" Draco shouted. He could feel his palms tightening with his desire to strike something or something. "Right, that's it, she's gone."

"Draco –- I don't think that's the best solution," Neville said. "Ms. Umbridge is a powerful woman and the sort of attention she could bring to the business would be unwelcome to say the least."

"When I want your opinion, I will ask you for it, Neville," Draco retorted before thinking better of it. The silence on his mobile was punctuated by a call for beans from aisle four.

Sighing deeply, Draco unclenched his fist and rubbed his forehead. He was making a spectacle of himself at Waitrose -– clearly he could never come here again. It was just as well that Sainsbury's was five shops down. "Neville –- that was wrong of me -– I didn't mean -– I shouldn't have shouted at you."

There was no immediate answer, and Draco cursed. Neville Longbottom had been hired by his mother when Draco had decided that he would be the one taking over the family business, and they had been working together for almost six years now. While Neville wasn't the sharpest tack, he was incredibly loyal, and Draco couldn't imagine trying to find a replacement.

"Don't make a habit of it," Neville said eventually.

"I won't," Draco said, making a mental note to buy something nice for Neville, like a membership to the theatre or a trip to Greece. "I'm just -– the Blaise thing upset me."

"Don’t be," Neville answered. "He said you would be hearing all about it in person."

If it took Draco a moment to realise Neville had rung off, it took him another to realise that an entire shop full of people were making no pretence of not staring at him in annoyance, shock and disapproval. Putting his best Malfoy face forward, Draco nodded once to his audience, picked up his carrier bag and left.

Outside the store, it was pouring. Draco flipped the collar of his suit jacket up, planning to hail a taxi from the queue that normally lined up outside the store -– but it seemed that the rain had caused all the taxis to vanish.

He was just reconciling himself to taking the bus, or potentially walking, when an occupied black cab pulled up in front of the store.

"Thank God," Draco muttered, shifting his carrier bag from one hand to the other as he waited for the occupant to get out.

He waited.

And then he waited some more.

Finally, removing his suit jacket and folding it tightly to keep it as dry as possible, he hastily walked up to the taxi and knocked on the window. "Are you working or not?" he shouted just as the back window cracked open.

"Care for a lift?" an unfamiliar voice asked.

"No, I'm just doing my part for water conservation," Draco snapped, opening the door and climbing into the taxi without a thought for safety or propriety.

"You are the one who took forever to get in the taxi," the other occupant said as Draco pushed down the folding seat and busied himself attempting to brush the water from his clothing and hair. "I thought perhaps you were waiting for an engraved invitation."

Draco's suit jacket wasn't really wet, but he could feel the cold water on his scalp and down the back of his shirt, plastering the white cotton to his skin.

It was incredibly uncomfortable, and Draco could feel his features twisting into a scowl.

"Yes well, perhaps I was. Do you make a habit of picking up men you don't know?" Draco began, only to let any further query die off when he realised he had at least seen his saviour before.

"Only when they're wearing this season's compact cotton Zegna suit -– it seemed a shame to let such a beautiful thing get ruined by the rain."

The Burberry model had green eyes hidden behind his black plastic frames -– enormously bright, verdant eyes –- almost like the colour of a footie pitch --- and extremely unruly black hair. Draco could get him booked for months on those eyes alone, but the hair was questionable, and he smirked when the model offered him a small smile.

Draco's eyebrow rose instinctively. "So, you know your tailors, but I still don't know you. Don't you think it might be best to introduce yourself before I allow you to take me home?"

"My name's Harry," the model said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a white business card. Sliding towards the edge of his seat, he held the card out for Draco to take.

Their fingers brushed as Draco pulled the card away, and while there was a brief spark of something or other, Draco had also been known to spontaneously combust in regards to Ferragamo loafers and new duvet covers, so he wasn't terribly concerned.

"Harry Potter," he read aloud. "Certified Private Accountant?"

Draco's accountant was a small nervous man, Flitwick was his name, and while he did have a certain charm with numbers –- he neither looked nor dressed in such a manner.

More was the pity, apparently.

Harry brushed his fringe away from his forehead, briefly displaying a small crooked scar that looked like it could have been gotten in a rugby accident. "At your service, Mister --"

Draco could hardly speak for the snorting noise that escaped him at such a lacklustre attempt at chatting him up. Clearing his throat, he pocketed Harry's card and pulled out a silver monogrammed cardholder to remove one of his own business cards made of thick, Egyptian stock.

Harry took the card and flipped it between slender fingers. It only had two clear lines of information, one on the front and one on the back.

"Draco Malfoy," he read clearly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter." A small smile played at the corners of Draco's mouth as he watched Harry watching him.

The wet shirt was terribly uncomfortable, but between the heat from the taxi and the way Harry was watching him, the chill under his skin was beginning to dissipate.

"Harry – just Harry."

"All right then, Just Harry, perhaps you'd like to --"

Draco's proposition was cut off by a rapping on the partition by the taxi driver. "Anytime you two gentlemen feel like getting on with it," he began, his twanging Croydon accent making Draco's ears hurt. "Some of us'd like to be home for tea."

Draco pursed his lips, ready to let the driver know his opinion wasn't wanted, but instead he just raised an eyebrow at Harry's completely inappropriate smirk.

Get on with it indeed.

--Chapter II—

Notes:

ETN: Orignally I was persuaded by

ethrosdemon and

serialkarma to include a footnote gallery for UK to US terminology that people may not have understood, but I've decided against it as it simply doesn't feel right. I want people to concentrate on the story, not on scrolling back and forth for terms. I like to think you're all smart enough and well-learned enough to follow this -- if there are terms you don't understand, I suggest a visit to EffingPot: An American's Guide to the British, and if there are things that I really think need explaining, like The Mark Thatcher issue, well, there's your link.

Author's Notes

This story would never have gotten past the planning stages without the tireless assistance of several people:

kattiya, who managed to spark the idea in the first place with her model kinks and willingness to go looking at menswear. This one is for you.

random_flores, who made the absolutely gorgeous splash art even though she was up to her neck in midterms. Look!

circe_tigana, who was there from the moment I said 'fic!' and has been a wonderful cheerleader and supporter, even though I refused to show her the story before it was done. She also graciously provided the teaser art and icons.

serialkarma, who has been working on everything but this for weeks, and yet who never told me to shut up when I whinged. ::hearts::

oxoniensis, who Brit-picked my memories so we could discuss Waitrose locations and why driving in London takes years off your life.

And last but never ever least, my girl,

ethrosdemon, who came out of retirement just in time to do what she does best – whip my sorry ass into shape.

Much love to all.

Also, before the questions start – I'll be posting one chapter a week, possibly two, I don't know what days though so don't ask.

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