#demon james

Harry feels the bile rise in his throat and quickly chokes it back down. He won’t get paid if he vomits on his client. Even if this is his most loyal and kind client, it would still earn him a beating and lose him the day’s earnings. Instead he fakes his pleasure, because he knows this man likes him to be responsive, and gives the appropriate moans and touches. His mind conjures up images of the few boyfriends he’d had in the past and of porn he’d watched - anything to make this even slightly enjoyable.

Finally, with a grunt and one deep thrust, the man finishes, slumping over Harry’s prone body to catch his breath. Harry dares not move, despite how rank the man’s aftershave smells and the way the hands still clutch his hips. Hot breath puffs against his ear. Wet, open mouthed kisses press against his neck and bare chest. A tight squeeze of his hips for a moment causes a strike of fear in Harry’s mind - does he want to go again?

Thankfully, the man rolls off him and pulls up his trousers, zipping his fly with finality. Harry gives a sigh of relief. As the man straightens his shirt and tie and slips his blazer back on, Harry takes stock of his body. No matter how often he does this, how integral to his life it is now, he will never get used to the pain and the humiliation he feels every second of the day. But this is his life now.

“I might give you tip. You make me regret being married.” The man jokes, drinking in the sight of Harry’s still exposed body and winking lecherously. The man fishes a wad of cash out of his wallet and hands it over. Harry gapes at the amount but tucks it away before the man can snatch it back.

“Much appreciated.” Harry needs every penny he can get. Maybe, once the cut for his family comes out, he will have enough to spare for a crisps, water and biscuits. A bland diet, he knows, but he’s not ill or deficient in any vitamins yet, so it’ll do.

The man lingers in the alley, stood in his suit with an honest to God briefcase, looking impossible out of place. Harry doesn’t say anything as he fidgets on his sleeping bag. Will the man just leave already? This is awkward.

“…Everything okay?…” He asks hesitantly. His stomach begins to twist nervously.

“You’re a good person.” The man isn’t looking at him. He contemplates the moss growing on the damp brick walls, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t deserve to live your life like this. I know you, and you deserve a second chance.”

“I’ve my second chance and I blew it. If you knew me, you’d know that. Are you done here?”

The client ignores the dismissal, finally turning back to Harry. His hand holding the briefcase clenches. “I can help you. I have a way to make all of your problems disappear. Poof! Gone. And it’s not money.”

Harry knows it is too good to be true, but so long as the man isn’t offering to buy him completely and fix his problems with sex. A miracle fix for his problems. That is the dream. It could make his money worries go away, get him a flat to live in, stop him ever going hungry, get him back into uni, fix his relationship with his father, cure his sister’s near-incurable disease. Harry has wished on every star, on the first snowflake that falls - he would hunt for a genie’s lamp if he thought they existed.

“Go on.” What does he have to lose?

The man doesn’t answer, instead, he winks and smirks and places his case down on the ground and opens it. Harry can’t see what the man is doing, rummaging around in it as if the inside were bigger than the outside. Harry’s heart speeds in anticipation, and he suddenly aware that he is still naked. The chilling breeze nips at his shoulders as he hunches over his drawn up knees. A spark of irritation flies at the man who delights in building the suspense as he stares at Harry.

Finally, from the inside of the case, the man retrieves a thick book. But it is so much more than a simple book. Cracked, burnt black leather covers, with clasps made of a shining red metal, inlaid with inky black pearls. The pages are crumpled and jagged, something rust coloured stains the parchment. It looks to be a thousand years old at the very least. It is too ancient for a sexually deviant businessman to be carrying around in his man-bag. What is it?

As if he could read Harry’s mind, the man begins to explain. “This book and many like it have been handed down the generations of my family, we are the custodians of the secrets it holds. We gift it to those we deem worthy - and you, I think, are worthy. I see how desperate you are, how low life has brought you. You sleep on the ground, in the dirt, like a common beast, and you sell yourself to the highest bidder. And the lowest. You’re starving. You’re hopeless and dying down here. I see everything and I give this to you.”

The man holds out the ominous tome, pressing it into Harry’s hands. He almost buckles under the weight of it. Thankfully it is large enough to cover his modesty from his creepy client.

“How does any of that make me worthy? And what even is this? What am I meant to do with this book? Sell it, eat it, use it as a pillow?”

He should have known. No power in the world is capable of fixing the absolute mess Harry has made of his life. And now this charlatan thinks a stupid book can fix all of his problems. If a book could fix his fucked up life then university wouldn’t have been such a failure at university. He’s kidding himself even thinking he can get together enough money to pay for a private treatment for Dee Dee. His life is fucked.

The man rolls his eyes and growls angrily. For a moment, Harry thinks his eyes flash red. But a second later it’s gone. He must have imagined it. Low blood sugar probably.

“Read it and you’ll know. Do what it takes to improve your life.”

With that dire instruction, the man slips away down the alley, smart shoes clicking on the pavement. He leaves Harry naked on his thin and patchy sleeping bag, with a medieval book in his lap, feeling more humiliated and taken advantage of than he did when the man was screwing him. A book? If only, he scoffs. 

In the cold silence that Harry has grown used to now, he gets dressed, cleaning himself up and preparing for his next client. Money safely stashed away, he tries to focus on his motivation - Dee Dee, and his family - but his thoughts and eyes drift constantly to the bloody book. So out of place in the modern world. Finally, he give sin to the temptation to open it and read. There’s nothing else for him to do.

Reading it turns out to be a bust, because not only is it in some near illegible fancy calligraphy, but it appears to be in Latin, which Harry only knows from his old boarding school’s motto. He doesn’t know near enough to translate this thing. But, undeterred, he examines the pages and the accompanying illustrations, hoping for something to help him, or at least, entertain him until he has to go in search of a new customer.

Weeks later, as he finishes the last page, Harry goes back to the beginning and starts all over again. And again. And again. With each rereading he understands more and more of the contents. When he realises that it is a Satanic text about demons and spells and evil deeds, he only contemplates throwing it away for a second before starting to read again. It’s not like there’s an abundance of reading material for homeless prostitutes, and besides, it’s actually pretty interesting.

In the dark of the night, when he has no light by which to read his tome, Harry wonders why his client gave this to him, and he mulls over his cryptic words as a kind of lullaby. He hasn’t seen the man since so has no one to go to for answers. While the book is illuminating in many ways, he still doesn’t know what to do.

That is until the day he collects his meagre savings and shoves them into a wrinkled brown envelope. It’s not enough, even with the money he was going to save for himself so that he could eat a little better the following week. Dee Dee’s treatment is expensive, he knows, and this will barely put a dent into it. But he posts it through the flat’s letterbox anyway, when he knows that everyone is out.

It’s as he lets the tears fall down his cheeks, as the realisation that this could very well be his life until the day he dies washes over him, that he understands. He was given the book because he has nothing to lose and everything to gain. So he might as well use what he’s learnt. Harry doesn’t care if this is a ploy to suck him into some cult, or steal his immortal soul or whatever, he really does have nothing left to lose.

So, by the fading light of the day, Harry settles down on his sleeping bag, a demonic book in his lap, and prepares to summon a demon. It’s what the book is for. It details all the requirements - not many - and the consequences - a few - and the risks - too many to list. Harry feels prepared for this, so he confidently recites the required Latin text. Though he stumbles over pronunciation he guesses it doesn’t matter how he pronounces a dead language, and carries on. It’s the intent that matters, anyway.

As he finishes the silence in the alley presses down on him. No birds sing, no cars rumble by, no wind whistles. Harry’s breathing becomes laboured as fear creeps in. What did he just do?

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry shrieks and nearly jumps out of his skin. For where there once was empty space, now stands the most handsome man Harry has ever seen. Well, demon, he supposes, given the ritual he just performed. But he looks nothing like a demon. He’s dressed in an impeccable suit, hair combed back, and completely devoid of a pitchfork and tail. Thankfully the man - demon - says nothing about his scream.

Neither of them speak. Harry tries and fails to break the silence but his jaw merely opens and close noiselessly like a dumb fish. God, he must look so stupid and brainless to this impressive and immortal demon. A puny, pathetic prostitute.

Seemingly amused, the demon takes a step forward and gracefully folds himself down to sit next to Harry. Harry looks up, at the demon, confused.

“Take your time. I know that book doesn’t quite prepare you well enough for demon summoning.”

“I— I— I just summoned a demon?”

“Yes. Me.”

“Do you have a name?”

“… What?” That startles the demon. Harry feels flicker of pride at having shocked someone as powerful as him before the confusion and shock settle in again.

“A name. It’s rude to just call you demon, isn’t it? I’d find it rude if I called ‘human’ or ‘person’ all the time. Surely you have a name.”

“Oh. My real name is rather difficult for your kind to pronounce - much like that Latin you butchered.”

“Sorry. Is there a name you want me to call you, then? One I can pronounce.”

“You may call me James.”

“Very well. Nice to meet you, James.” Harry hold out his hand for the demon - James - to shake, rather surprising himself. And James if the look on his face is anything to go by. “Just go with it. I think I’m in shock.” With a quirk of his lips, the demon shakes his hand.

“What happens now?” The book didn’t explain what to do once the demon has been summoned, it seems to rely on the person working the spell having some sort of natural instinct. Something Harry does not have. If he did, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

“Well, you are obviously worthy, since you have the book. Tell me what you need to do and we’ll work out a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Obviously, I don’t do this for free.”

“No, I… I knew that, obviously. I just… you’ll do it? No matter what? So if I needed someone to die in order to improve my life, then you’d do it? What if I asked you to commit genocide?”

James doesn’t bat an eyelid. “It would be done. For a price.” There is no doubt that the price would be steep, but the fact that he would kill a person, or an entire race of people, for a price - for Harry - is startling. Though, Harry supposes, he is a demon. Demons don’t exactly have morals.

“But I doubt you need me murder anyone, let alone an entire population.” James reassures him. Harry finds he quite likes this man. It might be because he’s the first person to have a proper conversation with him in months. Or because he is undeniably attractive and Harry can feel the stirrings of desire in his stomach. “What is your predicament?”

Harry sighs, his shoulders sagging where he sits and feeling more relaxed next to an omnipotent demon than he has done in a long time. He shuts the book and scrapes his nails gently on the tough cover; absently, he notices how long and dirty his nails have gotten.

“I did something my father can’t forgive.”

“I can’t change the past, Harry. No one can. I’m sorry.” Somehow, Harry believes James.

“I didn’t expect you too. I’d either screw up again exactly the same or be so plagued with guilt about it I’d tell my dad and be back here again. I messed up, got kicked out and I just need to make amends so that I can go back home.”

“And you’re making amends how?”

“Any money I have goes towards paying for a treatment for my sister. She has autoimmune encephalitis and there’s a treatment that might help but it’s experimental and not available on the NHS, so the family have to pay.” There’s something wrong about paying for a child’s medical bills with sex, but it’s the only choice Harry has. No savings, no job, no smart clothes for an interview or a printer for a CV. Being homeless sucks.

“You’re selling your body for your sister. For your family. And how do they feel knowing the money you give them comes from a man abusing your body?”

“I don’t really know. I post it through the letter box when I know they’re out.” Harry fidgets guiltily. He can’t even face his family, how will things ever be okay? “They’d hate it. I’m disgusting and dirty… they won’t want me anywhere near the kids. And too right.”

“So you won’t be allowed near the sister you sacrificed yourself for. Charming.” James doesn’t try hard to keep the contempt out of his voice. It brings a rare smile to Harry’s face to have someone on his side - a smile he fights down because that’s a selfish thought and it’s wrong.

“I guess I need… I would like Dee Dee to be healthy. I want her safe and comfortable, and I don’t want it come at the cost of my family’s financial stability. I want my family to be happy.”

“And what about you? Is there anything you want for yourself?”

“I don’t deserve anything. I’m a lost cause.”

James stiffens beside him, but Harry doesn’t dare look at him. He knows he has a sort of ally, but he can’t see the pity or compassion. Not when he doesn’t have it from his family.

“Very well. I will require something in return.”

No matter what was demanded of him, Harry has nothing to lose. That was what drew him to summon a demon in the first place. And for his sister? He would give anything to see her smile again, to have her laugh and be carefree, without tubes sticking out of her. “Anything.”

“Your soul.”

“And what will you do with my soul?”

He’d come home from a rather annoying day at work, and found the flat empty. Regulus placed the groceries he’d brought back with him on the counter, a soft frown settling on his features as he looked around for James.

There wasn’t the telltale sign of the television playing somewhere, or the sound of his shower running – James was never quiet, it was bordering on unnerving. For a moment, Regulus was relieved, James must have finally left, finally gone back home when he realised Regulus would not be making a deal. He ignored the twinge in his chest, the soft sadness that came with being left, told himself this is what he’d been waiting for this entire time.

Then he’d made his way into his bedroom and came to an abrupt stop; his heart fluttered in his chest at a sight that absolutely should not have been adorable.

James was curled up in Regulus’ bed, all almost seven feet of him, with his tail wrapped around his middle as if he was holding himself, and Regulus’ pillow held tight between two unreasonably strong arms. There was a small part of him grateful that James’ wings weren’t in the mix, he didn’t want to imagine the damage that would’ve been caused in his bedroom by a sleeping demon rolling around with his wings outstretched.