Narcissa Ch.2

Chapter 2 - The Search

Footsteps in the corridor made Narcissa's stomach clench. She had been counting the days since she had signed the breeding contract. Thirty-two. Thirty-two days of waiting for letters that never came, thirty-two nights of lying awake on her narrow cot wondering if tomorrow would bring word from some wizard willing to take her as his wife.

Part of her had dreaded this moment, knowing it meant accepting a husband chosen by the Ministry. Yet another part, the part that was tired of gray stone walls felt a guilty relief that the waiting was finally over.

In those first weeks, there had been hope. The Ministry had published her availability in the Daily Prophet's matrimonial section with clinical efficiency: "Narcissa Black, 45, pureblood witch of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, seeking marriage arrangement under the Wizarding Re-Population Act. Proven fertility. Inquiries to the Office of Magical Population Management."

Narcissa had imagined—foolishly, perhaps—that some wizard might write. Someone who remembered her from before the war, when she had been Lucius Malfoy's beautiful wife, hostess to the finest gatherings in wizarding society. Someone who might see past the Death Eater brand and remember the perfect tits and arse that made bachelors and married wizard's drool. She had always been confident in her appearance. Aware of the way their eyes lingered on her breasts when she leaned forward at dinner parties, how their gazes followed the curve of her hips when she walked past in her form-fitting robes. Even Lucius's business associates had struggled to maintain eye contact during meetings, their attention inevitably drifting to her body despite their wives sitting mere feet away.

But the owls had brought nothing. No letters, no inquiries, no offers of marriage from wizards seeking a wife of noble blood and beauty. The silence had been humiliating.

Today should have been her wedding day—to a husband of her choosing, a wizard who had courted her through proper correspondence. Today should have been her release from this gray stone cell, her return to something resembling the life she had lost.

Instead, today was the day she would meet the wizard the Ministry had selected for her. The stranger who had agreed to take the notorious Narcissa Malfoy as his personal breeding cow. A man who'd shag her when the Ministry told him to, pump her full of his seed until her belly was swollen as part of his civic duty to replenish the wizarding population, then probably ignore her the rest of the time. She'd be nothing more than his live-in whore with a fancy marriage certificate to make it all legal.

Narcissa could picture it already. Him pushing her down onto whatever shabby mattress he owned, hiking up her nightgown without a word of affection, grunting and thrusting into her like she was nothing more than a hole to fill. Night after night until her belly started to swell, then he'd probably leave her alone until she'd squeezed out his brat and was ready to be bred again. She'd spend her days cooking his meals and washing his pants, and her nights flat on her back with her legs spread, staring at the ceiling while he used her body for the Ministry's precious population statistics.

Exactly as Bellatrix had warned.

The footsteps stopped outside her cell door, and the heavy iron door opened with its familiar creak.

Narcissa looked up from where she sat on her narrow cot, hands folded in her lap with the practiced composure that had been drilled into her since childhood. Even here, in this gray stone cell, a Black did not slouch.

But the figure that stepped through the doorway was not one of the guards she expected.

"Mrs. Malfoy."

Harry Potter stood in the doorway, and for a moment Narcissa could only stare. He wore simple black robes, and she could see the gleam of the Head Auror badge pinned to his chest

She wasn't surprised by the badge, not really. After defeating the Dark Lord, they could have voted him Minister for Magic and she wouldn't have blinked. The wizarding world owed Harry Potter everything, and they knew it. Head Auror was almost modest by comparison.

What startled her was how much Harry had changed.

It had only been a few years since that night in the Forbidden Forest, but this was not the scrawny boy she she had knelt beside, whose pulse she had felt beneath her trembling fingers. This man bore little resemblance to the seventeen-year-old who had "died" at Voldemort's feet.

Harry Potter had grown broad at the shoulders, his frame filling the cell door with solid muscle. He was taller than her now Narcissa realized as he approached. When had that happened? In her memories, he was still the slight boy she had towered over in formal robes at the Qudditch World Cup.

She had read about him in the Daily Prophet, of course. While Granger and the youngest Weasley boy had returned to Hogwarts for their final year like dutiful students, The-Boy-Who-Lived had refused. Instead, he had become an Auror immediately after the war's end, hunting down the Death Eaters and dark creatures who had scattered after the Battle of Hogwarts. The papers painted him as a hero, naturally.

"Time for your hearing," Harry said, his voice deeper than she remembered, carrying an authority that seemed to come naturally to him now.

He stepped forward and offered his hand.

For a moment, she hesitated. Then she placed her pale fingers in his, allowing him to help her to her feet. His hand was warm, calloused from wand-work, and surprisingly gentle for someone whose reputation in the papers said was particularly brutal when capturing Death Eaters.

"Thank you," she murmured, genuinely surprised by the courtesy.

When they reached a doorway, Harry stepped aside and placed a hand lightly on her lower back to guide her through first. It was a brief, professional touch that nonetheless startled her. No one beside Bellatrix had touched her with anything approaching gentleness in three years.

But there was something else about that touch, something that made her wonder... her hearing hadn't happened. She wasn't married again, yet. Maybe there was still time to secure a husband of her choosing.

After all, Harry Potter was unmarried. She'd read about his messy breakup with the youngest Weasley girl in the Prophet six months ago. All those headlines about the "Golden Couple's" split. Rita Skeeter had made quite a meal of that fact, wondering why the famous Boy Who Lived hadn't settled down yet.

"This way," he said quietly, steering her toward the administrative wing of the prison where a small processing room waited.

The space was sterile and unwelcoming, a square box of gleaming white tiles. A single barred window high up near the ceiling let in a square of pale afternoon light that made everyone look sickly and pale.

In the center sat a metal table, its surface polished to a cold gleam. On it sat a bundle of clothes: the green silk nightgown Narcissa had been wearing wearing when the Aurors had burst through the wards at Malfoy Manor three years ago.

"Your wedding dress," said a bored-looking guard. Henderson, according to his name badge, was a thin man with the pallid complexion of someone who spent too much time underground.

Narcissa stared at the nightgown with barely concealed horror. The silk was wrinkled from storage, but she could see how sheer it was, how utterly inappropriate it would be to appear before the Wizengamot in such attire. When they had dragged her from her bed in the dead of night, she hadn't been given time to think about propriety. All she remembered was the shouting, the blazing lights of spells, the way her bare feet had slipped on the marble floors as they dragged her from her bed.

Henderson cleared his throat impatiently, clearly eager to get started. "Right then, let's get on with it. Standard pre-transport security screening. You know the drill."

But Narcissa didn't know the drill, not really. Three years of imprisonment had involved searches, certainly, but nothing like this. The routine searches at Blackmere were conducted by female guards, were perfunctory affairs involving wands waved over her person and the occasional pat-down. She had heard whispers from other prisoners about the more thorough examinations that preceded transfers, but the details had always seemed too grim to dwell upon.

Henderson's eyes lingered on her figure with obvious hunger as he continued. "Standard strip search and cavity inspection before you can be transported to the Ministry. Can't have you smuggling anything nasty into the Wizengamot chambers, can we?" His tongue darted across his lips.

Narcissa's skin crawled at the lecherous gleam in his eyes, the way his gaze traveled over her body as though she were already naked. She lifted her chin, drawing on reserves of pride that felt increasingly hollow. But her hands trembled as she reached for the fastenings of her prison robes.

Harry's attention shifted to the guard, his voice taking on a tone that made the temperature in the room seem to drop several degrees.

"That'll be all, Henderson. I'll handle the security check personally."

The guard looked up, startled. "Sir, regulations state that I—"

"I'm well aware of the regulations," Harry cut him off. "I'm also Head Auror, and I'm telling you to wait outside."

"But sir, I really should—"

"Outside. Now."

The command was delivered with quiet steel that made Narcissa straighten unconsciously. Something about his tone, how cold, controlled, and utterly commanding it was, reminded her sharply of her father. The same tone that had once made grown wizards step aside without question, that had commanded respect through pure force of will.

Without thinking, she found herself taking a slight step closer to Harry, drawn by that familiar authority even as her rational mind questioned the impulse.

Henderson scurried out like the pathetic worm he was, his face flushed with frustration and barely contained lust. He cast one last lingering glance at Narcissa that made her feel exposed despite being fully clothed, before stepping into the corridor and closing the door behind him with unnecessary force.

Harry ran a hand through his messy black hair and let out a long breath. "Right, that was completely inappropriate. I'm sorry you had to deal with that," he apologized and moved toward the door himself. "The prison should have had a female guard on duty for your release. They knew you were leaving today. I can call for one now."

Narcissa stopped him before he could leave. She couldn't let him call another guard. This was it. Her chance.

When he had collected her from her cell, Harry looked at her like a man looks at a woman, not like an Auror processing a prisoner. The seed was already planted.

Now she just had to make it grow.

Her voice came out soft as silk, carefully modulated to carry just the right note of vulnerability. "Oh... must you?" She let her shoulders droop slightly, a picture of exhausted resignation. "I've been locked up in this dreadful place for three years now. Three whole years since the war ended."

Her mother's lessons echoed in her mind as she spoke. A witch has the most power when she makes a wizard believe he has all the power, darling. Men are simple creatures. They want to feel strong, protective, needed. Give them that, and they'll give you everything else.

"Please," she continued, voice barely above a whisper. "I'd quite like to leave today, if it's all the same to you. No more delays."

Harry's hand had stilled on the door handle. "But the regulations clearly state—"

"I understand the regulations," Narcissa said quickly, then caught herself, softening her tone again. She ducked her head, tucking a strand of platinum hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. It's just... I trust you to treat me with dignity, Mr. Potter. More than I trust some leering guard poking and prodding at me."

The manipulation was working beautifully. Harry's shoulders had straightened, that hero complex of his rising to the surface like a fish to bait. He wanted to protect her, she could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in how his hands clenched at his sides.

"Are you certain?" he asked finally. "I can still ask for a..."

"I am," Narcissa said immediately, voice soft but firm. She tilted her head slightly, a gesture her mother had taught her that made men close to the same height feel taller, stronger. "Unless... you don't feel comfortable with it? I wouldn't want to put you in an awkward position..."

"No, no," Harry said quickly, and Narcissa had to suppress a smile of triumph. Hook, line, and sinker. "If that's what you want, then we'll do it. But we still have to do this by the book, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Of course," Narcissa breathed, all soft compliance and grateful relief. "I wouldn't expect anything less from someone with your reputation."

Harry's chest puffed out slightly at the compliment. Honestly, men were so predictable.

"Alright," he said quietly. "If you're sure."

Narcissa showed now outward reaction, but inside, she was rather pleased with how easily he'd accepted her suggestion.

"Strip," Harry commanded.

Not "please undress" or "remove your clothing" — just strip. Like she was his to command. Like she belonged to him already.

Narcissa nodded, lowering her eyes demurely. "Okay."

When she began undressing, she did not rush, but she didn't dawdle either. She didn't want Harry to think she was hesitant or reluctant. She made it a performance. Nothing overt or obvious. The gray jumpsuit slid down her pale curves, pooling at her feet to reveal the elegant figure that had driven pure-blood wizards in Britain mad with desire back in her debutante days. Prison had made her leaner but her breasts were still full and high, nipples pink as rose petals, her waist narrow before flaring to hips that promised fertile breeding. Between her thighs, platinum curls formed a neat triangle that she made visible when she stepped out of the robes.

She caught Harry's eyes lingering and allowed herself a small, secret smile. Perfect.

The search began with her hair, Harry's fingers working through the platinum strands. She let out a soft sigh of pleasure at the contact, as if his touch was welcome rather than merely procedural. He was gentle, but without a wand for styling charms, a few tangles got tugged.

When he checked behind her ears, his thumb tracing the delicate shell, Narcissa let her breath catch.

"Sorry," Harry apologized.

"Three years without proper styling charms," Narcissa replied with a soft laugh that held just the right note of rueful femininity. "I must look frightful."

"You don't," Harry said immediately, then seemed to catch himself. "I mean... you look fine."

Another point scored. "That's very kind of you to say."

"Open," Harry said when he moved to stand beside her head to examine her mouth.

Narcissa parted her lips, tongue darting out to briefly touch his finger before he could pull away.

"Sorry," she murmured breathlessly. "Accident."

Harry's finger traced her bottom lip before pressing inside. His finger moved against her tongue with deliberate sensuality, and she found herself automatically sucking on the digit, coating it with her saliva.

"Arms up," he said, withdrawing his finger with a wet pop that made her cheeks burn.

Her arms rose above her head, exposing the pale hollows of her underarms. Harry's examination was thorough. His hands traced her shoulders, her collarbones, the elegant line of her neck with touches that grew bolder as her soft moans and breathy sighs convinced him she was enjoying his touch.

"Lift your breasts."

Despite the familiar burn of humiliation that rose in her cheeks, Narcissa softly bit her bottom lip. Let him think she was shy or aroused, or anything other than sick from his touch. She cupped the heavy flesh that had always been too generous for propriety in her palms, thumbs brushing her hardening nipples as she held them up for his inspection.

"Like this?" she asked innocently, watching his pupils dilate as her pink peaks stiffened under his gaze.

By the time they reached the final stage, Harry was practically panting. "Turn around, bend forward on the table."

Narcissa turned slowly, every movement deliberate and sensual despite her embarrassment. Facing away from him now, she bent forward, presenting herself like a mare in heat. She arched her back just enough to make the display even more enticing and wiggled her hips slightly, making her ass cheeks jiggle enticingly.

The position was degrading by design, but Harry's sharp intake of breath made it bearable. She could practically feel the blood rushing to his cock.

"I need gloves and lubricant from Henderson for the final check," he said after a moment.

"Oh," Narcissa said, letting a little fake sigh slip out. "More waiting, then?"

"Well, I—"

"Please," she interrupted gently. "I’ve been stuck in this place three years, wondering if I’ll ever see my son again…" She trailed off, as if overcome by emotion.

"We can't skip the final check," Harry said uncertainly.

"I'm not asking you to skip it," Narcissa replied softly. "I'm asking you to do it. Without making me wait for Henderson to fetch supplies and drag this out even longer." She paused, then with trembling hands, she reached back and pulled the two pale globes apart, the pink pucker of her rear entrance clearly visible, along with the folds of her sex beneath. "Don't worry about the lube, or gloves. It's fine. I trust you not to hurt me, Harry."

The words hit their target perfectly. Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, protector of the innocent, could hardly refuse such a request. Especially not when it was delivered in that soft, trusting voice that made him feel ten feet tall.

"I... we'd have to improvise," he said finally. "We can't do it without lubrication, Narcissa. It could cause injury."

"I trust your judgment," Narcissa said immediately. She was so close to having him exactly where she wanted him. "You're the expert here."

"Open your mouth again," he said, voice rougher than it had been.

Narcissa parted her lips eagerly as his finger slipped inside, coating itself with her saliva and she fought not to smirk at how perfectly this was all going. She made sure to be thorough, swirling her tongue around the digit, sucking gently, showing him exactly what her mouth could do to other parts of him if he would only allow her.

When he pulled his finger out, glistening with moisture, she peeked over her shoulder at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Is that... will just one point of contact being lubricated be enough?" she asked meekly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've never done anything like this before?"

It was a test, of course, she had slobbered all over his finger like some eager tart. Her question was a way to let Harry know that he was going to be her first. That he was going to be the only man in the world to touch her back there.

Harry paused, considering. He was clearly struggling with the professional requirements versus what he obviously wanted. "You're right," he said. "One point of contact isn't enough."

Brilliant. He'd passed her little test with flying colors.

Narcissa felt his hands on her arse cheeks, thick fingers spreading her wide open. "Oh!" she gasped as the hot spit splattered right against her tight pink arsehole. She couldn't help but clench slightly

"Just relax," Harry said as used his finger to spread the saliva over her puckered hole.

"I'm sorry, I didn't expect—" Narcissa started, then cut herself off, playing the part of the sheltered pure-blood wife who'd never experienced anything so crude. Let him think she was an innocent little housewife who'd never had anything up her bum before. Which wasn't entirely acting, to be fair. Lucius had been many things, but imaginative in bed wasn't one of them.

Harry's finger pushed slowly into her tight ring of muscle, his makeshift lubrication easing the way as he conducted the required search. Narcissa couldn't suppress the sharp intake of breath. Merlin, he was bigger than she'd expected.

"Fuck," she breathed without thinking, the word slipping out before she could stop it.

"Everything alright?" Harry asked, voice strained trying to sound normal. Poor boy was trying so hard to be professional while his cock was probably moments away from tearing a hole in his robes.

"Just... overwhelmed by your attention," she managed, her voice trembling perfectly. "You're very... skilled with your hands, Mr. Potter." She pushed back slightly against his probing finger, making it seem like she couldn't help herself

His finger twisted inside her, probing deeper, and her body clenched around the invasion like it didn't know what to make of the intrusion. The sensation was degrading, overwhelming, and absolutely perfect for her purposes.

When he finally withdrew his finger from her tight little hole, she stayed bent over the table a moment longer than necessary, giving Harry one last eyeful of her pale cheeks and the pink rosebud he'd just thoroughly examined as it closed.

"You're clear," he said hoarsely.

She straightened slowly, making sure he caught the sway of her breasts as she reached for the green silk nightgown. The fabric was practically transparent, clinging to her curves like a second skin, her hardened nipples clearly visible through the material.

"Thank you, Harry," she smiled, letting the silk settle around her thighs, barely covering her the ass he had just been inside. "That was... very professional."

A complete lie. The bulge straining against his Auror robes told her everything she needed to know. This was no longer professional for him. Harry Potter wanted her.

Now she just had to finish the job before the Ministry could assign her to some stranger she'd never met for their breeding program.