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    Summary

    "You've been weird about Malfoy for months," Ron observed, following Harry's gaze. "Just talk to him if you fancy him."

    "It's not that simple."

    "Why not?"

    Because Draco Malfoy was clearly selling himself, and Harry's heart was breaking over it.

    The realization had come gradually, piece by piece. Draco was always with different people. Always dressed impeccably, always in expensive restaurants or shops Harry knew cost a fortune. The Malfoys had lost everything after the war—their reputation, their Ministry positions, most of their gold in reparations. Everyone knew that.

    So how else could Draco afford his lifestyle? How else could he look so well-kept, so polished, so expensive?

    The answer was obvious, and it made Harry want to simultaneously weep and punch something.

    Draco Malfoy—brilliant, beautiful, proud Draco Malfoy—had been reduced to prostitution to survive.

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