The Dark Prince - Chapter 3 (A Harry Potter Fanfiction) (Patreon)

Chapter 3

The Burrow smelled of fresh bread, damp earth, and the faint metallic tang of magic that always seemed to linger around the Weasley home. Late afternoon light slanted through the kitchen windows, catching on the mismatched chairs and the chipped mugs stacked by the sink. Molly Weasley moved between the stove and the long table with the brisk efficiency of a woman who had fed far too many people for far too many years. Her hands were dusted with flour. Her voice carried over the low hum of conversation.

"Sit down, Lily, for Merlin's sake. You've been on your feet since dawn."

Lily Potter smiled and stayed standing, one hip braced against the counter. Her red hair was pulled back in a loose knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looked tired in the way mothers often did, but there was a softness around her eyes that hadn't been there in the early years of the war.

"I'm fine, Molly. Really. Liam's been good all day."

At the table, James Potter sat with one arm draped over the back of his chair, the other hand wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold. His glasses were slightly askew. He looked older than his years, but the smile he gave his wife was genuine.

"Liam's been shadowing Ron all afternoon," James said. "Boy's got Quidditch on the brain already."

From the garden came the sound of voices - laughter, the occasional thump of a Quaffle, and Ron's loud, enthusiastic instructions. Liam's lighter voice answered him, a little breathless, trying to keep up. Ron was sixteen now, broad-shouldered and already moving like someone who knew exactly what he wanted out of life. Liam, at thirteen, followed him with the kind of hero-worship that came naturally when your older brother's best friend treated you like you belonged.

Lily's smile softened. She glanced out the window, watching the blur of red hair and dark hair moving across the grass.

"He's happy," she said quietly. "That's what matters."

Molly paused in her stirring. Her eyes flicked to Lily, then to James. The silence that followed was heavy with everything they didn't say out loud.

Sirius Black leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest. His hair was longer than it used to be, tied back at the nape of his neck. The leather jacket he wore had seen better days. He watched the garden with an expression that was harder to read.

"Harry would be in his sixth year at Hogwarts this year," he said.

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Molly's spoon stilled. James's fingers tightened around his mug. Lily's smile faded into something quieter, sadder.

Remus Lupin, sitting at the table with a book open in front of him that he hadn't turned a page of in twenty minutes, looked up. His face was lined in ways that had nothing to do with age.

"Sirius," he said quietly. A warning.

Sirius shrugged, but the movement was tight. "What? We're all thinking it. He'd be causing trouble somewhere by now. Probably at Hogwarts if things had gone differently."

James stared down into his cold tea. His voice, when it came, was rough. "We think about him every day, Sirius. Every single day."

Lily reached over and covered James's hand with her own. Her thumb brushed across his knuckles in a small, steadying motion. She didn't speak, but the grief in her eyes was clear.

Sirius looked away first. He pushed off the wall with a muttered curse and disappeared out the back door.

Outside, Neville Longbottom's voice rose above the others - loud, arrogant, the kind of tone that came from a boy who had been told too often that he was important. Neville was big, broad-shouldered, with a swagger that didn't quite fit the round-faced child he had once been. He was currently trying to show Ginny how to hold a Quaffle "properly," one hand lingering too long on her arm.

Ginny Weasley, slim, attractive and already sharp-tongued, yanked her arm back and glared at him.

"I know how to hold a Quaffle, Longbottom. I've been playing longer than you've been able to walk straight."

Neville laughed - a big, booming sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Come on, Gin. I'm just trying to help. You've got potential. With the right teacher-"

Hermione Granger, sitting on the low stone wall with a book in her lap, looked up. Her curly hair was pulled back with a ribbon that was already coming loose. She watched the exchange with the kind of quiet judgment that made Neville's ears go pink.

"Ginny's right," Hermione said. "She doesn't need your help. And you're standing too close."

Neville turned, flashing what he probably thought was a charming smile. "Granger. Always the voice of reason. You know, if you ever wanted private lessons-"

"I'd rather eat a Blast-Ended Skrewt," Hermione said sweetly, and went back to her book.

Ginny snorted. Liam, standing a few feet away with a Quaffle clutched to his chest, watched the whole thing with wide eyes. At thirteen he was small for his age compared to the older teens, with James's messy black hair and Lily's green eyes, but there was a wariness in him that neither of his parents had ever managed to erase completely. He looked up to Ron like a second brother and followed the older group around whenever they let him.

Neville's smile faltered. He muttered something under his breath and stalked off toward the orchard, kicking at a tuft of grass as he went.

Ginny rolled her eyes and tossed the Quaffle to Liam. "Ignore him. He's been like that since he hit his growth spurt. Thinks every girl in Britain wants to be his girlfriend."

Liam caught the ball and hugged it to his chest. "He's weird."

"He's a prat," Ginny agreed. "Come on. Let's go find Ron before he tries to teach the gnomes how to play Keeper."

The three of them disappeared around the side of the house.

Inside, the Order meeting was already underway.

The adults had moved to the sitting room once the younger ones were safely occupied outside. Wards hummed quietly along the walls. Dumbledore sat in the largest armchair, his hands folded over the head of his wand. His eyes were as sharp as ever behind his half-moon spectacles, but there was a weariness in the set of his shoulders that hadn't been there before the war.

James and Lily sat together on the sofa, closer than they had been earlier. Sirius had claimed the windowsill again. Remus stood near the door, arms crossed. Molly and Arthur Weasley were present, as were Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, and a few others.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. The low murmur of conversation died.

"We have a problem," he said. "One we have been circling for months now. The Dark Prince."

A ripple went through the room. Sirius's leg stopped swinging. Lily's hand found James's and squeezed.

"He's become Voldemort's most effective operative," Dumbledore continued. "Masked. Unidentified. But his magic is... distinctive. Brutal. Efficient. He doesn't kill when he doesn't have to, but he breaks people. And he does it with a kind of precision that suggests training. Real training. Not the sloppy work we see from most of the newer Death Eaters."

Mad-Eye's magical eye spun toward the window, then back. "He's young. That's what the reports say. Moves like someone who's been fighting since he could walk. And he's got a following. Some of the younger ones look at him like he's the second coming."

Dumbledore held up a hand. The room quieted again.

"We do not know who he is. We do not know where he came from. But he is effective. And he is loyal to Voldemort in a way that goes beyond fear. That is what concerns me."

James's jaw was tight. "So what's the plan?"

Dumbledore's gaze moved over the room.

"We find him. We bring him in. Alive, if possible. I have... theories about who he might be. But I will not voice them until I have proof. For now, we watch. We listen. And when the opportunity presents itself, we act."

Lily shifted on the sofa. "And if he's not who you think he is?"

"Then we deal with him as we would any other Death Eater," Dumbledore said. "But I suspect the truth will be... complicated."

The meeting stretched on. Plans were made. Wards were discussed. When it finally ended, James and Lily were among the last to leave. They stepped out into the late afternoon light and found Liam waiting for them near the garden gate, Quaffle still clutched to his chest.

"Ready to go home?" James asked.

Liam nodded.

They Apparated back to Godric's Hollow. The cottage was quiet. Liam went straight to his room. James and Lily lingered in the kitchen.

Lily put the kettle on. James leaned against the counter and watched her.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded without turning around. "I'm fine. It's just... Sirius still brings him up sometimes. And it hurts. Because I think about him every day too."

James was quiet for a moment. Then he crossed the kitchen and pulled her into his arms. She rested her head against his chest.

"I miss him," she whispered. "Every single day. Even after all these years. I still miss our boy."

James's arms tightened around her. His voice was rough when he spoke.

"Me too."

They stood like that for a long time, holding each other in the kitchen of the house where their first son had once slept.

The manor's lower levels smelled of damp stone and old blood.

Harry walked through the torchlit corridor with the easy confidence of someone who had never known what it felt like to be powerless. His long dark hair was loose today, falling around his shoulders in dark waves. The silver scar on his forehead caught the green light and threw it back. His robes were dark, elegant, the kind that marked him as heir rather than soldier.

He pushed open the heavy doors to the main hall without knocking.

Voldemort was already there.

A man knelt in the center of the room, bound and shaking. His mask had been torn away. Blood ran from his nose and split lip. Voldemort stood over him, wand loose in one hand, red eyes burning with cold displeasure. Several Death Eaters lined the walls, silent and still.

Harry paused just inside the doorway.

"Father," he said. His voice was calm. Almost bored.

Voldemort did not look away from his victim. "You're late."

"I was training." Harry crossed the hall, boots echoing on the stone. "What happened?"

The bound man made a small, broken sound. Voldemort's lip curled.

"This one thought he could steal from the funds we've been siphoning through the Ministry. Thought I wouldn't notice." He raised his wand. The man flinched. "He was wrong."

Harry watched the Cruciatus hit with detached interest. When the curse lifted, the man collapsed in a sobbing heap.

Harry tilted his head. "Dramatic."

Voldemort's red eyes flicked to him. "You think so?"

"I think he's wasting your time, Father," Harry said. "If he's stupid enough to steal from you, he's not worth the effort."

Voldemort studied the broken man for a long moment, then raised his wand without hesitation.

"Avada Kedavra."

Green light filled the hall. The man dropped, dead before he hit the floor.

Harry didn't flinch, but something in his expression tightened for a fraction of a second. He looked at the body, then back at his father.

"I don't kill if I don't have to," he said quietly. "But... whatever you say is best, Father."

Voldemort's red eyes lingered on him. There was no anger in them - only a slow, considering satisfaction.

"Good," he said. "Loyalty is not measured by what you enjoy, my son. Only by what you do when I ask it of you."

Harry inclined his head.

Voldemort turned away from the body as if it no longer existed.

"There is an informant feeding the Order," he said. "One of ours. He's been careless. I want him found and brought to me. Alive. I want to know exactly what he has told them."

Harry nodded. "Consider it done."

As he turned to leave, his eyes scanned the room.

They landed on one of his favorite concubines near the back wall - Soleil Greengrass, wife of the Greengrass patriarch. She stood in her usual elegant silence, blonde hair pinned up, robes simple but expensive. Her husband stood beside her, tall and thin, face carefully blank.

Harry changed direction without breaking stride.

He walked straight up to the couple. He didn't lower his voice.

He looked at Soleil's husband first.

"Send your wife to the back room," Harry said. Calm. Commanding. Loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. "Now."

Soleil's husband went very still. Then he bowed - deep, immediate, deferential. He didn't meet Harry's eyes.

"Yes, my Prince," he murmured.

Harry turned to Soleil. His green eyes dragged over her without shame.

"Come with me."

Soleil's breath caught. Color rose in her cheeks. She glanced once at her husband, who was still bowed, then stepped forward without hesitation.

"Yes, my Prince."

Harry didn't wait. He walked out of the hall. Soleil followed like a shadow.

They didn't go far. A small antechamber off the main corridor - private enough, warded enough. Harry pushed the door open, stepped inside, and waited for Soleil to enter before he sealed it behind them.

She turned to face him, already reaching for the fastenings of her robes.

Harry crossed the room in two strides and kissed her. It wasn't gentle. It was claim and hunger. Soleil made a soft sound against his mouth and melted into him.

He backed her against the wall. His hands worked at her clothes, shoving fabric aside. Soleil's body was soft and full, the kind that had borne children. Harry liked that. He liked the way she responded - eager, grateful, a little desperate.

"Turn around," he said against her mouth.

She obeyed instantly.

Harry shoved her robes up over her hips. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. He freed his massive cock, dragged the thick head through her folds once, then pushed in without warning.

Soleil gasped. Her body tried to adjust to the sudden stretch. Harry didn't give her time. He set a hard, deep rhythm, hips snapping against her ass with wet, filthy sounds. One hand gripped her hip. The other fisted in her hair and pulled her head back.

"Fuck-my Prince-too big-"

"You can take it," Harry growled. "You always do."

He reached around and rubbed her clit with two fingers. Soleil came with a choked cry, her cunt clamping down around him. Harry fucked her through it, then pulled out, spun her around, and lifted her. Her back hit the wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist. He drove back into her in one smooth thrust.

"Look at me," he ordered.

Her eyes - glassy, desperate - found his. He fucked her harder, pinning one of her wrists above her head.

"Mine," he said. "This cunt is mine when I want it. Say it."

"Yours-fuck-yours, my Prince!" Soleil's voice cracked. "Only yours-oh gods-gonna come again-"

Harry rubbed her clit in tight circles. Soleil came again with a broken wail, another gush of fluid soaking them both. Harry buried himself deep and came with a low groan, thick pulses of cum flooding her until it leaked out around his cock.

When he finally pulled free, a heavy stream ran down her thighs. Soleil slid down the wall, legs shaking too hard to hold her. She ended up on the floor in a heap of expensive robes, chest heaving, cunt puffy and leaking.

Harry stood over her for a moment, breathing hard, then tucked himself away. He crouched in front of her and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

"You did well," he said.

Soleil managed a shaky laugh. "You say that every time, my Prince."

Harry helped her to her feet. She leaned against him for a moment.

"My daughters," she said after a moment, voice low. "Astoria and Daphne. They're ready. They've been asking about you. Watching you. They want what their mother has."

Harry's eyes darkened with interest. "I've seen them. I like what I've seen."

Soleil's smile was small and satisfied. "They're good girls. Loyal. They'll serve you well."

Harry kissed her again - slower this time. "Tell them I'll come for them soon."

Soleil nodded.

Harry left her there and stepped back into the corridor. The mission waited.

He Apparated without another word.

Harry moved through the shadows like smoke. The informant was a low-level clerk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement - someone who had been feeding information to the Order for months. Harry found him in a back alley two blocks from the Ministry, trying to make a portkey with shaking hands.

The man never saw him coming.

Harry stunned him, bound him, and dragged him into the shadows. The whole thing took less than three minutes.

He was halfway back to the manor when the ambush hit.

Three figures dropped from the rooftops - wands already raised. Harry recognized them instantly. James Potter. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin.

Harry dropped the bound man and drew his wand.

"Well, well," he said, voice distorted by the mask. "Look what the cat dragged in."

James's wand was steady. "Drop your wand. You're under arrest."

Harry laughed. "You're adorable. All three of you against one masked man? How brave."

The fight was fast and brutal. Harry dismantled them with cold efficiency. Sirius went down first. Remus lasted longer but took a Diffindo across the thigh. James was the last standing - stubborn, angry.

"You fight like a child," Harry said. "Is this really the best the light has to offer?"

James's face twisted. "Who the fuck are you?"

Harry's laugh was cold. "Wouldn't you like to know."

He was toying with them, letting them exhaust themselves, when a child - no more than eight or nine - ran into the alley.

She froze when she saw the wands and the blood. Her eyes went wide. She opened her mouth to scream.

James lunged toward her without thinking.

Harry acted on instinct.

He flicked his wand. A shield flared between the child and the stray cutting curse meant for James. The spell shattered against it. The child stumbled back, unharmed.

For a single heartbeat, the alley went silent.

James stared at him.

Then the three spells hit Harry at once.

Pain exploded across his side, his shoulder, his leg. His vision whited out. His knees buckled. The mask slipped as he fell.

The last thing he saw was James Potter's face - pale, shocked, staring down at him like he was seeing a ghost.

Green eyes. Black hair. The scar.

Recognition.

Then nothing.

When Harry woke, the world was wrong.

He was lying on a soft bed in a room that smelled of old wood and lavender. His body ached. His wand was gone. His mask was gone.

The door opened.

James Potter stood in the doorway, Lily just behind him. Both of them looked like they had seen a ghost.

Harry's green eyes met theirs.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Lily made a small, broken sound - half gasp, half sob.

"Oh my god," she whispered. "Harry."

Harry stared at her. At the red hair. At the green eyes that were so much like his own. At the man beside her who looked like an older, more tired version of the face he sometimes saw in the mirror.

He didn't know these people.

He had never known these people.

But they knew him.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, a cold knot of dread began to form - the same knot he had carried since he was small, the one that whispered that the Potters had never wanted him, that they had been cruel, that he had run away because staying would have killed him.

Except now they were looking at him like he was something precious they had lost.

Harry felt the anger rise in his chest.

He didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

The hatred was already there, burning cold and steady in his chest.