The Dark Prince - Chapter 27 (A Harry Potter Fanfiction) (Patreon)

Chapter 27
The Island and the Crib

DISCLAIMER
All characters depicted in this story are 18 years of age or older. This is explicit adult erotic fiction.

The east wing was quiet when the knock came. Harry stood at the window of his chambers, long dark hair loose against his shoulders, the silver scar cool on his forehead. He had not spoken to his father since the hall. The closed doors in his mind remained shut. The question about the crib, about the five years, about the night a baby was lifted from one place and carried into another, sat behind them untouched.

The door opened without waiting for permission. A girl stepped through. Young. Blonde hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Black robes cut modestly, the fabric still new. She stopped just inside the threshold, hands clasped in front of her, blue eyes wide and careful. Harry did not recognize her.

“Who are you,” he said.

She sank into a curtsy that was precise and slightly too deep. “My Prince. My Lord sent me. I am Layla Greengrass. A cousin of the main line. Draco Malfoy’s new betrothed. He said I was to present myself. That I was to… serve, if you wished it.”

Harry looked at her. The heavy outline of his cock shifted against the front of his trousers, but the cold under his ribs did not move. He crossed the room, stopped in front of her, and tilted her chin up with two fingers so she had to meet his eyes. She held still. Her pulse jumped under his thumb.

“Draco’s,” he said. “Not mine.”

“My Lord said the house serves the heir,” she answered. Her voice stayed steady. “He said you decide what that means.”

Harry studied her for a long moment. Long dark hair fell forward as he looked down. He could take her. The rooms were empty. The door was already closed. She had been sent for exactly that. Instead he released her chin and stepped back.

“Tell Draco he can keep this one,” he said. “I have other uses for my time.”

Layla’s breath left her in a small, controlled exhale. She curtsied again, lower this time, and left without another word. The door closed behind her. Harry stood where he was. The decision sat cleanly. He did not need another body tonight. He needed answers.

He walked the corridor that led toward the Malfoy apartments without hurry. Servants flattened themselves against the walls when they saw him. He did not acknowledge them. The heavy outline of his cock shifted against the front of his dark trousers with every step. The ache from earlier had settled into a low, steady weight rather than urgency, but the cold under his ribs had not left. Action would not erase it. Action would only give it a direction.

Narcissa’s private sitting room was lit by a single floating lamp. She stood at the window when he entered, blonde hair still in its neat coil, black robes closed at the throat. The fabric clung to the full curve of her hips and the heavy swell of her ass. She turned at the sound of the door. Blue eyes widened, then lowered. She sank to her knees without being told.

“My Prince,” she said. Her voice stayed even. “I did not expect you so soon.”

Harry closed the door behind him. The lock clicked. He crossed the room, stopped in front of her, and opened his trousers with one hand. His cock sprang free, thick and already half-hard, the broad head flushed and leaking a single clear bead. Narcissa’s breath caught. She leaned forward without waiting for the order and dragged her tongue along the underside, slow and deliberate, tasting the salt and the heat of him.

He fisted the coil of her hair and pushed deeper. Her throat opened. Saliva spilled immediately, running down her chin and onto the front of her robes. He held her there, the outline of the head visible under the skin of her neck, and rocked his hips in short, controlled thrusts. She gagged once, wet and sharp, then settled into the rhythm. Blue eyes stayed locked on his face even as tears gathered at the corners.

“Deeper,” he said.

She took him until her nose pressed against the base. Her throat fluttered and clenched. He stayed buried for three slow breaths, then pulled free. A thick string of spit connected her swollen lips to the head of his cock. He hauled her up by the hair, turned her, and bent her over the low settee. Her robes went up. She wore nothing beneath. The pale, fleshy swell of her ass rose high, soft and heavy. He lined the broad head up and drove in to the hilt in one thrust.

Narcissa cried out. The stretch forced her open. Her hands scrabbled for the edge of the settee. Harry gripped the soft cheeks and spread them, watching the way her cunt stretched around the thick shaft. He set a hard, driving rhythm. The wet slap of skin filled the room. Her ass jiggled and rippled with every thrust. He reached under her and rubbed tight circles over her clit. She came with a sharp, broken sound, walls clamping hard, clear fluid spraying around his cock and soaking the settee. He did not slow. He spanked the pale curve once, hard enough that the print sank into the soft flesh, and kept pounding through the aftershocks until her voice cracked on his title and her legs shook.

He pulled out, turned her onto her back, and hooked her legs over his arms. He drove back in. The new angle let him sink deeper. Narcissa’s blue eyes went glassy. She came again, quieter, a full-body lock that left her limp and panting. Harry fucked her through it until her hands pushed weakly at his chest and then fell away. He buried himself deep and came with a low groan, thick pulses of cum flooding her, overflowing immediately and running down the crack of her ass in heavy white streams. Her head lolled. Her cunt fluttered once more around him and went soft. She stayed conscious this time, chest heaving, blue eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Harry pulled free. A thick line of her wetness and his cum followed. He tucked himself away with steady hands. The ache had eased. The cold under his ribs had not.

“Stay there,” he said. “I need your husband.”

Narcissa nodded once. Cum continued to leak from her. She did not move to cover herself.

Lucius was in the study two doors down. He looked up when Harry entered. Pale hair, pointed features, the expensive black robes that marked him as a senior Death Eater. His eyes flicked once to the open front of Harry’s shirt and the still-visible outline against his trousers, then dropped. He rose from the desk and bowed.

“My Prince,” he said. The words were careful. “Here to fuck my wife again?”

Harry closed the door. He did not sit. He looked at Lucius the way he looked at Death Eaters who had disappointed his father—cold, measuring, already finished with the performance. “Yes.”

Lucius’s mouth tightened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He stayed standing. The cuckold tension sat in the set of his shoulders, in the way his hands stayed open at his sides, in the careful blankness he had practiced for years. Harry had fucked Narcissa in front of him more than once. Lucius had watched, hard and silent, and then knelt when told. The power difference was not abstract. It lived in the room.

“You’re lucky,” Harry said. His voice stayed low. “I’m allowing Draco to find a new wife. Because I’m the Prince. Not because you earned it. I met her. Layla. I left her standing.”

Lucius’s throat worked. He inclined his head. “Yes, my Prince. The boy is… grateful. He understands his place. Layla understands hers as well.”

Harry stepped closer. The silver scar caught the lamplight. “Does she.”

“She does.” Lucius’s hands flexed once at his sides. “She has been told how things are done. She knows what is expected of a Malfoy who serves the Dark Lord and his heir. She will not make the mistakes I have made.”

“Your mistakes,” Harry said, “include standing in this room while I use your wife and pretending the only thing that matters is that you are still allowed to stand.”

Lucius’s pale face flushed. He did not look away. “I serve, my Prince. That is what matters. Narcissa serves. Draco serves. The house serves. Whatever else is required of me, I provide it. Including the girl you chose not to touch.”

Harry tilted his head. Long dark hair slid over one shoulder. “Where is Pettigrew.”

Lucius went still. The blankness cracked for a fraction of a second. “My Prince, I don’t—”

“You do.” Harry’s voice did not rise. “You keep the old keys. You keep the old coordinates. You keep the things my father does not want written down. Where is he.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened. “The island. The one off the western coast. Low rock. No name on the charts. The wards are old. He has been there since the night he brought you to the hall. My Lord preferred him… contained. After the failure with the Secret Keepers.”

Harry’s hand closed around his throat. Not hard enough to choke. Hard enough to hold. He pushed into the man’s mind without warning. Legilimency slid past the weak surface shields the way a knife slides under skin. Lucius’s thoughts were orderly, polished, and full of careful omissions. Harry drove past the polished layer. He saw the manor corridors. He saw a portkey key and a set of coordinates. He saw an island, low and rocky, ringed by wards that had not been refreshed in years. He saw a small stone cottage at the center of it, and a man who had not left it in a long time.

He pulled out. Lucius staggered back against the desk, one hand at his throat, eyes wide and wet. His face had gone grey.

“Thank you,” Harry said. He turned and left. Narcissa was still on the settee when he passed the sitting room. She did not speak. He did not look at her again.

The portkey was crude. Harry activated it in an empty corridor and let the hook behind his navel yank him sideways. Cold air and salt hit him first. Then rock under his boots. The island was small, barely a ridge of dark stone rising out of grey water. Wind cut across it. A single cottage sat in a shallow dip, its wards flickering at the edges like a dying candle. Harry walked toward it without raising his wand. The door opened under his hand.

Peter Pettigrew was alive.

He sat on a low stool beside a cold hearth, thinner than Harry remembered from any old file, hair greying and sparse, robes that had once been black now faded to a dull grey. He looked up when the door opened. His eyes were red-rimmed. For a long moment he only stared. Then his face crumpled.

“James,” he whispered. “James. Oh Merlin, James. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for taking him. I’m sorry for kidnapping Harry. I didn’t want to. I swear I didn’t want to. He made me. He said if I didn’t bring the boy he would—he would use my mother. He said he would feed her to the snake. I tried to say the location. I tried. The charm wouldn’t let me. So I took him. I took the baby and I ran. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please. Please don’t—”

Harry stepped inside and closed the door. The wind dropped. Peter’s voice kept going, thin and cracked, the same apology repeating in broken pieces. Harry did not correct the name. He crossed the room, stopped in front of the stool, and looked down. Long dark hair fell forward. Green eyes stayed steady.

“Look at me,” he said.

Peter’s eyes lifted. Recognition hit him like a physical blow. The apology died in his throat. He made a small, animal sound and tried to stand. Harry put one hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. The strength difference was absolute. Peter stayed.

“You took me from a crib,” Harry said. “You carried me into a hall. You handed me to my father. Tell me the rest.”

Peter’s mouth worked. His hands twisted in the faded fabric of his robes. “I—I held him. You. I held you. You were warm. You looked at me with those green eyes and you didn’t cry at first. You just looked. And I told myself it would be quick. That he only wanted to see you. That maybe he would let you go after. I knew it was a lie. I knew. But I said it anyway. I’m sorry, James. I’m sorry I took your son. I’m sorry I walked into that hall with him in my arms. I’m sorry I didn’t die in the cottage instead.”

Harry’s hand stayed on Peter’s shoulder. “The five years before that. What happened to you.”

Peter flinched. His eyes dropped. “I can’t. My Prince—James—I can’t say it. He told me never to say it. He said if I ever spoke of it he would start again. Please. Please don’t make me—”

Harry reached into his mind.

The surface was thin. Fear, guilt, years of isolation. Harry pushed past it. The memory rose clear and sharp.

A cottage at night. A baby in a crib. Peter’s hands shaking as he lifted the child. The disapparition. The hall. Voldemort’s red eyes. Then the memory shifted. It went further back. A different room. Smaller. Darker. Peter on his knees, younger, face pressed to stone. Voldemort’s voice, soft and exact. The Cruciatus. Hours of it. Peter’s body convulsing. Then the pain stopping. Then the Dark Lord’s hand on the back of his neck, not in comfort. In ownership. The memory showed the rest without flinching: the robes opened, the pale body, the way Peter had been used while he was still shaking from the curse, the way he had been told, afterward, that this was what loyalty looked like when words failed. The five years were not empty. They were filled with the same pattern, repeated until Peter stopped flinching and started bringing what he was told to bring.

Harry pulled out.

He stood very still. The cold under his ribs had become something sharper. Peter was sobbing now, quiet and continuous, face in his hands. The apology had started again, muffled. “I’m sorry, James. I’m sorry I took him. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder. I’m sorry I let him use me. I’m sorry I brought your boy to him. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Harry’s hand stayed on Peter’s shoulder. His voice, when it came, was low and even.

“That was my father.”

Peter looked up. His eyes were wet and empty. He nodded once. The movement was small. He did not try to explain further. His mouth opened and closed. Nothing else came out. Harry looked at the man who had carried him out of one life and into another, and felt the sum refuse to close. The closed doors in his own mind had not opened. They had only grown heavier.

He stepped back. The wind found the gaps in the cottage walls and moved through them. Peter stayed on the stool. His shoulders shook. The apologies continued under his breath, the same broken phrases repeating until they lost meaning. Harry turned toward the door. He did not look back. The question he had come to ask had received its answer. He was not finished with it.

Outside, the grey water stretched to the horizon. Harry stood on the rock until the cold of the wind matched the cold under his ribs, and he did not move.