Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!

Notes: The fourth part of the Simulacra series. Please read the prequels first.

?

?

You hopeless, stupid, callow little child. You think you know me, Potter? You know nothing. You think this is some sort of bizarre ritual of claiming, do you? That I wish to make you mine. That I need you. As if there could be anything of you, of your hopelessly small, squirming body--of your mind, just as small and just as pathetic--that I could want to claim. Let alone need.

I know how close you hold your moments of false freedom. I've seen them, after all--wind-swept, sun-lit moments in your mind, with the flutter of the Snitch just tickling your fingers. It's a song that you sing to yourself in your cage, isn't it? I hear the echoes of it sometimes. When you come to my bed, come on my bed, come all over it--your mind goes dark, like a put out candle, yet your slick, smooth skin burns with heat. After you've come I finish off as you lie under me, lax and limp and golden, flinching when my sharp teeth close over your shoulder. You listen to that song then, don't you? Does it make you feel more clean, Potter? Does it drive away the darkness? I can hear you thinking, when your shields are down and your body stinks of come--this is not me this is not me this is not me--and I'd almost laugh then, if I didn't hate you for it--it's what makes me fuck you harder after you come, so that I can tear a little bit of you, make you flinch, make you hurt, to come back to me now damn it because you are this boy--this dirty little boy in his teacher's bed with a cock up his arse, pulsing--and that you think of yourself as that free-flying thing, with the sound of flapping robes around you and the brush of the Snitch against your fingers--that you dare to think of that when I'm coming makes me want to strike you afterwards, to smash that brittle mind of yours, to pound and pound until you're broken under me, a wooden toy with its limbs disassembled, all string and cloth and bone.

Ashes.

You think you're innocent, Potter? That's laughable. You were ruined--are ruined--you were--

Your self-delusion astounds me. Do you even know how long you begged to be fucked, in your mind, before I first touched you? Do you even realize it? Do you think you're innocent, when I shove you into a broom-closet with you still sweaty from your match--when I hike your robes up and bite your mouth until you whimper--when I hold your arse open with two thumbs to thrust into you and you beg? Are you innocent when you like it, sweating and writhing against the harsh starch of my robes, relishing the bite of splinters as you dig your fingers into the wooden walls, relishing the sharp burning pain of my cock as you eat it? Are you innocent when you say yes yes please fuck yes fuck yes--and you don't think I'll remember it, but I do--every moment of your humiliation, Potter, every single, burning moment of it--until you rise and sublimate and convulse, and every breathless expletive from your small, child's mouth makes me close my eyes so that I don't look at you, so that I don't push you away, you hateful, dirty thing? Are you innocent when you come all over me and soil my robes, wet and hot and sobbing--are you innocent when your arse dribbles my come as you stand up and there's a little, angry part of you that likes it, that likes feeling dirty, feeling used?

You're a whore, Potter--sometimes you're--

--Those boys in the showers, indeed. I know you watch them, that you want to touch yourself--but when you do touch yourself it's only me you think of, isn't it? As the warm water sluices over your body and you watch the others, heavy-lidded and half-nervous--and it's not so strange to masturbate there, because all the boys do it--but do all of them hear my voice when they do? Do they have to bite their lips hard enough to draw blood to keep from calling out my name? Do they know that when you cup your cock all you can think of is the shape of my hand, the warm ladle-calluses, the slow, oiled strokes I give to you when I'm patient, when I want to see you writhe, forcing drop after drop of pre-come from your cock like hot wax from a candle?

Oh, you know what you are. You just don't want to realize it. If you're just a boy, if you come only because you're touched, then why don't you seek out other little whores like yourself? Would Weasley's tentative, freckled hand satisfy you? Of course not--you've dreamed of it--tried dreaming of it--but every dream turns into me, every face turns into my face, every body turns into my body, moist with sweat and sliding against yours, over yours, in yours, until you're being smothered by my scent and my mouth and my heat and my cock, and every dream of yours, every innocent boy-dream of yours turns into a nightmare in which you can't stop coming, can't stop bucking and clawing my back and gasping for more, harder, please.

You know nothing, boy, and you control nothing--and if you think I wish to claim you you're a fool, because I don't need to, because you're mine, because you'll always be mine, my own, my very own broken thing, unbroken thing, my very own filthy, splintered toy.

You know nothing if you think I save you for anything other than this--I save you because you are our weapon, yes, because you will kill Voldemort or be killed by him, and I save you because Dumbledore asks me to--but most of all I save you because I like fucking you, your mind and your body, and I love tarnishing Dumbledore's golden weapon until you gleam blood-red, sweat-sweet, corrupt, and so soft and quiescent here you look just like what you are, a pawn, Dumbledore's pawn and my pawn, and we make you and break you as we see fit, and you flow so easily into the moulds we make, and if I'm to save you, if I'm to risk my life and my breath for you, brat, the least you can give me is this.

The least you can do is linger like poison in the back of my mouth, a bitter, fatal sweetness when I meet Dumbledore or Voldemort--in this they are both the same, because I must keep you--the real you, the whore, my whore--hidden from them. Do you know what I give to protect you, boy? The least you can do is live up to it--live up to the memory of yourself, the dream of yourself, warm and open and willing, staying in my bed when you don't need to, crying bitter tears after you come, although you manage to keep your face blank when I'm awake--but once you think I'm asleep your mind is this hateful, blind scream of SIRIUS SIRIUS SIRIUS and I nearly throttle you for it, but instead I wait until you shift closer to me and move your arm around to embrace me, and sometimes to stroke my cock until I'm 'awake' again, and then I simply turn around and part your legs and fuck you, slow thrusts morphing into fast ones, until your mind empties into silence again and the whirr of that hateful Snitch, which I'll catch one day, I will, and crush so that when you come you see me, see only me.

It isn't a matter of owning you. It's a matter of what's right. What I deserve.

This memory of you. Fluttering in my trapped pulse whenever I cast a curse for Voldemort--so that I have something to remember that tastes like victory in the midst of this defeat. This subservience. So that when you sneak into my quarters later, demanding to hear about the mission, you find me stumbling and drunk with hate and whiskey and wrath, and I don't give you time to breathe before I tear through your clothes, your body, your mouth.

Beast.

That's your thought, or perhaps mine, but it doesn't matter because you're a beast too, a young animal hard and glistening and angry with teeth bared in a snarl, and you ask me Did you enjoy casting the Cruciatus tonight? and I answer, I tell the truth, I tell the lie, and as I push you down onto the carpet and see your body arch to the thrust of my fingers, I whisper: Yes.

And then you're coming, with a broken cry, before I can even work my cock into you.

Child.

?