Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy has never been first in his life, he always ended up in second place. Always there, but never enough. He was never perfect in his father's eyes, at Hogwarts he was always behind the Mudblood Granger, in his work life there was always someone better than him. He was never enough.
Until two weeks ago, when he was chosen as the first choice to entertain a special client.
That was the first time in his life he wanted to be second.
And so here he was. On his knees, in small clothes, with his eyes downcast - staring at the floor - waiting. Draco Malfoy had always prided himself on being patient, but now his patience was wearing thin. The ticking of the clock in the wall, the laughter and music on the floor below, and the unmistakable breeze on his skin were too much for him. And in that small space, he began to question the choices of his life. Every single one.
Why had he been born? What was the purpose of his life? Why had he accepted this proposal?
He could have become a healer, a politician, or even an auror? Why did he decide to become an artist? Why? Why? Why?
Why can he get up and leave this horrible room?
He knew the answer...
Harry Potter would come.
But why had Harry Potter chosen him to be the entertainer?
He was the Harry Potter, the perfect Potter, son of James Potter, godson of Sirius Potter, friend of the Mud-blood-Minister-of-Magic-Granger. He is The perfect Gryffindor.
And Draco was... Draco was a Malfoy, that's his only virtue. Oh, of course, and his perfect looks. Maybe that's why Potter chose him, because of his looks.
"You can try to win the little singer over, but you should try another camp," Aunt Bella said to him when he was turned down because Fleur Delacour had taken advantage of him for a job he wanted.
He was tired and a little tipsy from too much firewhiskey.
"And what is that supposed to be? I am too old to be a healer," he retorted, "he's already in his mid-twenties, he could try, but he'll never amount to anything. And he wanted to achieve something special at least once in his life.
Aunt Bella just took another bottle of firewhiskey and poured herself, chuckling at his reply, "I never said you should study, but I know where you'll shine with your Malfoy look. I have a client who always wants blonde, tall blokes".
"I do not want to be a prostitute. I am a..." Draco was furious. He had worked hard to be where he was now, even if it was only second place. He had never used any spells to better himself. Not only that, he did everything with hard work and practice. He was a singer, and a proud one at that.
"A Malfoy, I know. And I am a black, though I call myself Lestrange now. I know all about pride and that fucking bullshit. But, little nephew... Do not you want to make some money?" Aunt Bella is still talking, she was what she was, and the whole family knows about her deviant ways.
Draco should not listen to her, should not believe her. Yes, he needed the money. His father is still in Azkaban and no matter what he tried, the money is the only way to get him out.
Even if he never wanted to see him again, he was still his father.
"Not in a billion years, if I have to give myself to some random guy. I am not a prostitute." He replies and she laughs.
"Think what you want, but Lucius is still in prison, and you are still living in a study, not a mansion. And you always say you want to win something. So here's my offer."
One month later and here he was…
Why did he choose this kind of work? Draco knows the answer, he didn't want to be a politician like his father... and where did that lead him? He didn't want to be a teacher like his godfather, he was never good with children - although he can't say Severus was - He could have chosen to be a healer, he had the OWLs for it, but Pansy decided she wanted to be the best medi-witch of the century, so he left her alone. He could have been a Quidditch star, but he was never perfect at that and there was too much competition. An Auror... there was a time in his youth when he wanted to be an Auror, but what boy didn't? Only Nott. In the end he chose to be an artist, that was a good option if he wanted to annoy his father and do something he was good at.
But in the end it was all in vain, here he was... waiting for the customer Aunt Bella had told him was always looking for blond, tall guys. And only after offering the customer the "options" Draco called a "catalogue" and deciding that Draco Bloody Malfoy was the perfect and first option, did Draco know that the special "customer" was none other than Bloody Perfect Potter.
Draco Malfoy for the first time in his life wanted to be the second option.
Was he embarrassed?
Yes
Was he upset?
Yes
Was he angry with Aunt Bella?
Yes, and at his father and his work and at himself?
Will he be a coward?
Perhaps? NO! He will stay.
Was he afraid?
Absolutely and without a doubt.
The door opened and the coldness in the room grew even stronger. At that moment Draco stopped thinking. It was useless. There was no escape.
Draco did not lift his eyes, he heard the sound of boots on the marble floor, he heard the slow intake of breath from the man who opened the bloody door, and the small, unmistakable giggle that followed it. He has opened his eyes and can see the black boots in front of him. Draco can feel the power emanating from the "special customer' down to his bones.
"Look me in the eye."
Draco shivers a little, and he wishes Potter would not notice.
He looks up, and the green eyes he knew from Hogwarts, from a past life, are anchored in his own eyes. He can see the mess in his hair, with that remarkable after-sex hairstyle.
"Open your moth, Malfoy".
Was he horny?
Maybe? He will not answer...