Darker Days

Harry Potter was pure evil.

He didn't know quite what that meant. What was evil? He'd watched great men flee and leave their family at the mercy of Death Eaters, and he'd seen scum that stole for a living sacrifice themselves to buy children futile seconds. Evil was subjective. Evil was a state of mind. Evil could be shed as easily as a set of robes, depending on who won and got to tell the story.

The only thing he knew was evil for certain, always and forever, was him. He'd seen the accusation on enough terrified faces, heard it on more than enough dying lips, to understand that. So many people couldn't all be wrong. It was just simple math; a basic Arithmancy calculation.

Harry hummed quietly to himself as he levitated a wooden frame with his wand. Personally, he struggled to distinguish the line between pragmatism and evil. He thought his actions tended to be perfectly logical, more so even than the wrath filled decisions of his master. But somehow — according to others — he was constantly straying into evil. He didn't know where they got that impression.

"Perfect," he said aloud.

Satisfied with his tweaking of the frame, he applied a sticking charm and stepped back to admire his newest piece of parlor room decor. 

Fenrir Greyback's head stood out against the dark wood it was mounted on, skin still shining with false life courtesy of a preservation charm. His tongue lolled out while his fangs were bared in a snarl, much like his expression in his final moments of life. Harry nodded approvingly. Greyback's wild brown hair was a great match for the room's walls.

The fireplace turned a roaring shade of green.

Sparks puffed as a person emerged. They landed deftly, without falling or losing their stride. The new arrival was a tall, relatively slender woman, carrying her wand in one hand and a bundle of letters in the other.

"Harry dear," she said, "matters have arisen which need your—!"

Distracted by the mail in her hand, she had crossed the room without looking up. When she finally did, she found herself face-to-face with a severed head, its fangs bared and the eyes open wide.

Because Narcissa Malfoy was an upstanding pureblood lady, she did not scream. Her eyes did, however, bulge out.

"Do you like it?" Harry asked mildly. "I like it a lot."

Letters dropped to the floor in a pile as Narcissa grabbed Harry by the shoulders. She turned him side to side, staring intently, and even went as far as to pull his collar down to reveal his neck and upper chest.

"Did he hurt you?" she asked.

"Quite badly."

Harry lifted his right arm, with its mangled skin that would never heal.

"I mean this time, of course!" Narcissa frowned, but finding no signs of new damage, relinquished his shoulders. "Fenrir Greyback is an extremely dangerous man!"

"Was," Harry said.

"Was," Narcissa agreed, glancing back at the head. "Did he come after you?"

Harry laughed. He walked around her, to an ornate couch that dominated the room, and took a seat.

"Of course not. I went to him."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

Narcissa rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Why must you be so reckless?"

"You know me, Narcissa," Harry said. And this time, he was utterly serious. "I hate risks. I don't like to fight. If I do something, it is because I believe it will work."

"Even if that something is fighting Britain's most dangerous werewolf?"

"And his pack. Yet here I am… and there he is."

When Narcissa hesitated, glancing almost unwillingly at Greyback's head, Harry sighed.

"I did not survive this long to die because I underestimated a mutt. Relax, Narcissa. He is dead. I am fine. Draco will not be losing his friend any time soon."

Though she did not react outwardly, Narcissa stooped and picked up the mail she had dropped. Ordering it back into a neat stack, she approached an armchair that faced the couch and sat primly.

The parlor of Harry's home was simple, owing largely to how little he added as its chief occupant. The walls were good wood. The couch was expensive, and two armchairs offered additional seating, one of which Narcissa was now taking up. A woven Acromantula silk rug covered the center of the floor. The fireplace was barren except for a pot of Floo powder and a moving photo of a much younger Harry standing beside a skinny blond boy, a body of water at their backs.

"So?" Harry prompted. 

Sighing, Narcissa lifted the letters in her hand, reading the first envelope.

"Lord Potter, you are hereby invited to the second annual Grand Auction. Ah. Lucius added this one personally, you know— he's really hoping you'll attend." She scanned the rest of the letter. "The place… it's at Pettigrew's All-Purpose Emporium again, like last year. Plenty of valuable goods up for sale. Dragonhide boots… a nineteen-compartment trunk with state-of-the-art charms… oriental twins…"

"You're certain Lucius wants me there?" Harry asked.

"Absolutely positive. He spoke about it just the other night."

"...Tell him I'll think about it."

Narcissa smiled in a way that said she knew that was his way of agreeing.

She pulled the auction invitation aside, setting it on a nearby coffee table. 

"An invitation to Hogwarts' grand reopening." She set this one aside quickly, not bothering to extoll its virtues like she had with the last letter. "This one is from Dolohov, with the Department of Magical Punishment and Pursuit. Oh dear, it's asking about Severus. We haven't heard from him at all recently. Lucius and Draco are getting a bit concerned. You should write a response to this one, Harry. It's just a few questions about whether you know his whereabouts."

Harry's eyebrows climbed.

"To be clear, he's asking if I know where Severus Snape has gotten off to?" Harry asked. 

"Your animosity is well known, yes," Narcissa said sadly. "I presume that's why he is asking. The last man you got on badly with is now staring at me from your wall."

Harry pictured Snape's oily head mounted next to Greyback's, a sneer to pair with the werewolf's snarl. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be. This absence wasn't his work at all— he and Snape had avoided each other since the end of the war. It was easier that way, and less work in general.

They were both close with the Malfoy's, and yet they never mixed well. The man hated him from the first time they met (and, Harry suspected, long before that). Harry saw no reason to apologize for what he never did. So they kept apart as much as possible, and generally looked the other way whenever forced to occupy the same room. At least, that was how it had been since Harry earned power of his own. Before that…

To put it simply: there was ample motive for Harry to have made the man disappear.

But, the fact remained that he hadn't.

"I'll send Dolohov a letter by tonight," Harry said. "Clear up any misunderstandings."

"Thank you." 

Narcissa moved on to the next letter. She flipped rapidly through a full five that featured gilded envelopes and smelled of unplaceable berries. When she reached the last of them, she looked up again.

"Marriage proposals," she announced.

"Burn them."

Instead of following his order, Narcissa sorted them out, setting them on top of the letter about Snape.

"You have to write back and turn them down formally. Otherwise, they will only keep coming," she said. "Besides, I have already taken the liberty of weeding out the improper ones. These that are left are all good offers worth considering. The Fawleys are offering their oldest daughter, and one is even from the Parkinsons.

"Pansy sent me a marriage proposal?"

"Lord Parkinson did. But he won't send another one, if you turn it down properly."

Although Harry's face didn't change, Narcissa sighed. 

"I know you don't think of it much, but you are at a perfectly marriageable age," she said. "Draco wed his dear Astoria half a year ago. It's little surprise that families are interested." A mischievous spark entered Narcissa's eye. "Although, I suppose I might know why you aren't desperate."

Narcissa Malfoy was an extremely attractive witch, and from what Harry gathered she always had been. Born to the illustrious Black family, every one of her and her two sisters had been bombshells since their teenage years. But where the eldest Bellatrix was ever-wild, with chaotic hair and electric eyes, Narcissa remained cool. She was the perfect pureblooded bride. Even now, in her late thirties, magic kept her skin as lustrous as it had been at eighteen. She had high cheekbones and perfect makeup. Large green gems on gold hooks hung from her ears, bringing out the best in her blue eyes. Her blond hair was pulled up in an elaborate ponytail.

Harry smiled.

Narcissa moved on. Either she trusted he would listen and write the various pureblood houses back… or she was hoping she would have better luck another time. This was not the first time Harry had blown off that particular responsibility, nor the first time they held this conversation.

The last letter in the stack was not a letter at all. It was a simple sheet of unfolded parchment. Narcissa waved her wand, banishing it gently across the room.

Harry snatched the flitting paper with a curious hand. When he turned it around, he found nothing.

There were marks alright, but the ink squirmed around the page in every direction. There was no rhyme or reason to it. Harry hid his irritation with practiced ease.

He brought his right thumb to the tip of his left index finger. Even weeks from the next full moon, his nails were slightly sharper than they ought to be. Harry cut into his own skin, finding a very slight use for his great burden.

Blood dribbled from his index finger. He smeared it onto the paper, and in moments, the rampaging ink distilled into a concise message.

Lestrange Manor, it read. Tomorrow. Arrive before 3 in the afternoon. Lateness will not be brooked.

Harry scanned the parchment a second time. Then he tapped it with his wand, bursting it into flames.

Narcissa watched with interest as it charred and turned to dust. "Nothing bad, I hope?" 

"I don't know yet," Harry said. "I suppose I'll learn when I arrive."

His master was the one who raised him. Not like a father, of course. Voldemort didn't have the first idea what one of those might be like. He raised Harry as something more. Voldemort taught him everything that he could possibly cram into Harry's head, every obscure or arcane spell that might be useful even a single time. Every day became its own lesson— either in magic, or in Voldemort's own brand of wisdom. But since the war, those days had passed. Harry was generally left to his own devices. Times his master called for him were rare, and Harry honestly could not predict what awaited him.

Only that if he did not obey, what awaited him was sure to be much worse.

Narcissa accepted his words. She had crossed her legs when she first sat, and she uncrossed them now, resting both feet on the floor. Her long, pale fingers wrapped around the armrests of her chair.

"Well, that is the last of the letters," she said loudly.

"It seems it is," Harry said. "Was there anything else you needed?"

Narcissa's eyes filled with something that didn't match her regal appearance.

"Just one thing," she said.

O-O-O

Plap! Plap! Plap!

Harry's hips pounded Narcissa from behind. His hands gripped her narrow hips, pulling her body into each of his thrusts. Bright red marks on both sides of her ass stood out against her pale, bent-over body.

The expensive robes she arrived in were laying next to the chair where she had sat. Her bra and knickers lay on top of them— both sheer things more silk than substance. The sort of thing a witch only wore when she was expecting a wizard's eyes.

Narcissa's chin was jammed in the Acromantula silk carpet. Her back was perfectly arched, raising her rear for Harry to plow into. Which Harry was doing, rapidly and relentlessly. He let go of one of her hips to deliver a hard slap to her backside. The red marks on Narcissa's ass grew, now featuring distinctive finger lines.

She moaned long and hard, tightening around Harry's cock.

"That's it Harry," she pleaded. "Use this old witch. Make yourself feel good."

He grunted. His fingers dug into her platinum-blond hair, ruining its elaborate styling as he yanked it tight. Narcissa's face was dragged up from the floor. Instead of pulling her into him by the hips, Harry began pulling her by the ponytail.

Under the mercy of his strength Narcissa screamed, and she came a moment later.

Harry's body was not a normal one. It wasn't just the limp he walked with, although that was connected. Where other bodies reacted, his reacted quicker. When someone else punched, he punched harder. With just one good leg he could leap higher than the fittest quidditch player.

It wasn't to do with his werewolf status, although many people made the mistake of assuming as much. When Voldemort took a student, he was determined to create the ultimate tool. In the process, he became… zealous.

Harry became the recipient of rituals, ancient magic intended to help humans transcend their limits. One among them strengthened his body. It was the reason he could move so well, as well as what let him mash his cock into Narcissa at the speeds he was reaching.

But of course there were reasons rituals had fallen out of favor, and Harry learned those all too well, too.

He bent forward, reaching around her with his free hand to grab Narcissa's breasts. Large and perky, they squeezed between his fingers. Harry gripped them greedily. He pinched her nipple, twisting the sensitive flesh. Narcissa moaned sharply.

"You like my body?" she asked.

Harry straightened, pulling her head back another inch by the hair.

"On its knees," he said. 

"For you? always."

Harry's balls were smacking against her shaven quim. She was tighter than a married mother her age had any right to be, moist walls constricting Harry tighter with each passing orgasm he fucked out of her. Narcissa's mewling moans were the kind of noises most wizards who met her could never imagine coming from her mouth.

But Harry expected this much and more from his friend's mother. He learned what a slut she truly was the moment she slipped into his room after his eighteenth birthday, wearing nothing but a robe and eager to swallow his cum. She insisted then that it had been a one-time gift… but within a week she'd been back in his room on all fours.

Harry didn't know why she did it back then. He didn't pry. He was content with bending her over every time she came calling, using her gorgeous body until he'd had his fill. 

It wasn't love. At most, it was a rough form of mutual satisfaction. That was what made it safe. The perfect arrangement for someone like him.

Harry let go of Narcissa's hair finally. He clapped both his hands down on her ass with a hearty slap, and instead of letting them slide off, grabbed the soft flesh in a tight grip.

Narcissa howled as he redoubled his efforts. She crossed her arms on the carpet and buried her head against her forearms. Her whole body rocked back and forth, her breasts swinging wildly. Harry grunted.

His pleasure hit a crescendo. Harry did not pull out when he came, instead burying himself as deep in Narcissa as possible. She demanded as much. For a witch like her, contraceptive potions were as common as a wine.

Harry let go of Narcissa's backside, and she slumped forward. He was breathing heavily. A light sheen of sweat coated his body. Narcissa lay with her head down, moisture trails spanning the distance between her womanhood and the cock it slid off of.

"I'm dirty," Harry observed. 

Narcissa's ears perked up. She crawled around, kneeling with backside pressed to her ankles. As she took Harry in her mouth, looking up into his eyes, small strands of his semen leaked out of her onto the carpet.

Narcissa's head undulated slowly. Harry could see her throat bulge when she took him deep, but she never stayed that way for long. Her head bobbed slowly. Her lips suctioned around him, replacing any leftover juices on his shaft with her spit.

Her hands held onto Harry's hips. He was still propped up on his knees, hands hanging passively at his sides while he watched Narcissa work. She began adding flicks of the tongue. Soon cleaning was not her only priority, but pleasure, too.

Her head twisted side to side. She took his cock far past any common Knockturn Alley whore's gag reflex. Her whole body joined into the blowjob, lithe back rippling as it pushed herself forward and back. Somehow, her makeup was still flawless. Not a single tear ran from her eyes, nor did her lipstick smudge. A high-class lady to the end, even with a cock stuffed down her throat.

Narcissa's blue eyes begged him for her due. Her ostentatious earrings swung wildly with her head's bobbing. Harry felt her tongue dart across the slit of his cock and sucked in a breath. 

He grabbed the back of her head, jamming her tight to him.

Ask any frequenter of high-society balls and they would give you the same answer about Narcissa Malfoy née Black. She was beautiful in the coldest of ways, like a flawless sculpture no heat could melt. It felt as if you could only gaze at her from afar, even when standing directly beside her. Few could reach her heart, but more importantly, none could ever lay their hands on her. Even her husband, it was rumored among the raunchier and less couth pureblood crowd, simply lay in bed one night and allowed her to climb on top, too frightened to bring his hands to her body.

Harry didn't put any stock in that gossip, but he did know he was the only one to treat her this way. She confessed as much one night, when it was just the two of them as he ravished her.

He pressed her face into his crotch with sufficient force to give her the sensation of drowning. He came again— a smaller load than the first, but only by a margin. Narcissa swallowed once, her throat audibly gulping. Then she swallowed again. She swallowed a third time, and that was it. Harry released her.

She peeled away from his body, strands of her now-messy hair hanging over her cloudy blue eyes. An imprint of her perfect makeup had been left on Harry's crotch, including a ring of lipstick all the way around the base of his shaft.

As Narcissa huddled before him, Harry lifted her chin. He grabbed her bottom lip with his thumb, pulling it down to stare into her mouth. Narcissa shuddered and opened wide. All the way to her tonsils, not a single speck of his semen remained.

"Good work," Harry said.

Narcissa purred, an odd smile warping her wide-open lips.

"I aim to please."