Title - Untitled

Author - MidKnight2501

E-Mail address – Midknight2501@yahoo.com

Rating – NC-17

Category - H/C, Challenge Fic

Pairing (if needed) - Harry/Snape, Harry/OMCs

Warnings - Rape, prostitution, ect, ect.

Spoilers- The Victorian Time Period.

Disclaimer – They're not mine, seriously. No money made.

Archive: Part of the From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm

Untitled

Harry doesn't tell his Uncle this, but there's only one customer that he really likes to service.

Last time he told his Uncle anything about his customers, the ones his Uncle finds for him, he got a beating that left him unable to walk for a week, and that made his Uncle even angrier that Harry wasn't out lurking in dark alleys and getting swived by fine gentlemen in the dark.

And all he'd told him was that the one with the gray top hat hit him.

Bruises had shied away a couple of men, thinking he was into rough trade.

Of course, it wasn't all swiving in back alleys. Some times he snuck out while his Uncle was drunk, and he went mudlarking with the other boys. That got him some pence, and those got him some food. Not a lot, and not any of it good, but it was still better than nothing.

The one customer he did like was also the only one who Uncle let him out of sight with. Usually Uncle just stood at the alley mouth, supposedly to keep the men from making off with him, but Harry really thought it was more likely that he was afraid Harry would nip off somewhere himself. However, for that one gentlemen, there was no dark alley good enough, and he didn't like Uncle watching, either.

He paid for Harry for a full weekend, and had him bathed first. Harry didn't care for the murky, stinky bathwater too much, or the stinging lye soap, but it was worth it to spread himself on a bed with actual sheets. The gentleman even made it not hurt, though Harry wasn't exactly sure how that worked. The others all used spit, and instead this gentleman seemed only to murmur a few words under his breath (words that Harry didn't know) and then he was sopping wet before the man even touched him.

Such strange weekends, and the food...

Never did Harry eat as he did on those weekends, and he wished that the man would ask for him more often, if only to keep himself full of food. There were servants, small ones, men who hardly stood to his knee and were oddly shaped; he knew they were men because the Gentleman had told him so the first time he had seen one and had cried out in shock. They brought all the hot water for Harry to bathe in, and all the food, and changed the sheets when Harry and the Gentlemen made a mess of them.

Harry only wished, besides for more food, and more time in the Gentleman's bed, that sometimes, at night the Gentlemen wouldn't cry in his sleep. Harry cried in his sleep. He'd cried a lot more when he was younger, and his Uncle first started shopping him out in alleys. And if he tried really hard to remember he'd remember back to the days when his mother and father were killed by one of the Ton and he'd first come into his Uncle's care. He'd cried then, too. The Gentleman's crying reminded him more of his own tears after that first selling out, and how dirty he felt must be how dirty the Gentleman felt, because when Harry tried to comfort him he'd pull away, even in his sleep.

Sometimes he'd shout a name, in his nightmares, a name that would have rung a bell had his Uncle told him anything of his past. But Harry knew enough to know that whoever this Lord Voldemort was he was doing things to his Gentleman that were worse that back alley swivings.

Far worse, by the sound of the Gentleman's fear.

Which led to Harry not mudlarking one afternoon when his Uncle was as asleep as possible and the bottles all empty in their little flat. He'd found a knife, once, years before, and his Uncle only let him keep it because there was a chance he might need it one day, if one of the men tried to steal him or kill him. Harry's Uncle needed the money somehow, and if Harry got stolen or dead...

The little knife was hardly anything much, just a rusted bit of something sharp, but it was enough for what Harry had to do. He'd heard the name of that Lord far too often in the Gentleman's sleep these last few months, and he was pretty sure if that Lord quit bothering his Gentleman perhaps the man would stop having so many nightmares.

He found the man's house by accident, skulking home with his Uncle late one night from prowling the rich quarters where even the servants had the money to buy Harry's time, and as they had passed Uncle had mentioned the owners name, then looked at Harry in a very odd way. It didn't matter. Harry memorized the house, and the way there, and when the man came in and out of it.

It wasn't so hard to sneak up behind the man and stick his knife in, then disappear into the crowd of street urchins and drudgery women and the homeless while a cry went up from one of the Gentry in pain. Another week went by and the house was hung in black, and the Lord who had lived there was said to have died of some uncuring wound. It had festered, due to the dirt and muck and slime it had been pulled from on the riverbank.

Another month, and his Gentleman came calling, and there was the bath, and the sheets, and the food, and in the middle of it Harry's hand started to glow a dreadful blue where the blood had touched his hand from the stabbing. His Gentleman drew back mid-thrust, startled at the glow, and cursed beneath his breath.

“You?” He hissed, dark hair hanging round his face.

Harry nodded, somehow knowing what the question meant. One of the gentleman's hands riffled his hair, in a tired way, seeing the scar there he had seen before. “You didn't do this just for yourself-” he started to ask, but Harry stared at him blankly, and the man shook his head.

“For you.” Harry purred, voice rough from crying out. The Gentleman was good at what he did, made it all hardly hard work.

His hand didn't stop glowing where the blood had touched it, not even days and weeks later, but that didn't matter. The Gentleman bought him, all his time, all his hours, so he could stay in the house and eat and bathe and swive, all for the Gentleman's pleasure. It took a lot of money for that to pass muster with Uncle, but Harry saw how all that gold was made in the Gentleman's secret room. Out of dust and dirt.

Sometimes he liked to think of his Uncle, spending all that dust and dirt, or having it change back at a bad moment. Mostly he didn't think at all.

And the Gentleman himself had nothing to worry about, having his Master's killer under his roof. Harry was no danger to anyone, and certainly had his uses in and out of bed. He could carry things, at least. And get things off of shelves when the Gentleman called for them by name. Of course, Harry recalled nothing of his life as one of the Ton, a member of a Ton family that had stood in the way of another family coming to power. The Gentleman found it amusing that Harry had stuck down Lord Voldemort for him, of course, since the man had certainly done enough harm to both of them. It wasn't like anyone would ever look to his house, or his paid whore for a killer...

And now Lord Severus had all of Harry's time to himself.