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 sixth part of the Simulacra Series.

Simulacrum
by

You think you've made me angry, don't you, boy? You think this little fantasy of yours means something to me--other than proof that your mind truly is a gutter, albeit one accompanied by the delusions and stupidities of a child. Because that's what you are, Potter, no matter how much of a man you think you've become, no matter how many times and how angrily you say the words cock, and spunk, and come--no matter how boldly you say them, as though you're a veteran, but only I can hear the embarrassed stutter in your mind.

Legilimens. Legilimens. More a way of life than a curse, you foolish child.

Am I hard? Getting harder?

Of course I am. You little slut. Mouthing dirty words with your small, sweet tongue. You know just the words to use. To appal me. To enrage me. To make my lips pull back from my teeth until it looks like I'm going to bite--to rend you limb from limb, with my mouth, with my cock, but I reign myself in and smile instead.

What does it matter to me, after all, that you show the very cheapest side of yourself? The filthiest, stupidest part of your mind? That you can lower yourself to this, this blatant attention-seeking, exactly what I'd expected of you the moment you'd walked into this school? Child hero. Angel. Whore.

You think you're playing cards. You think you'll anger me into punishing you, into fucking you so hard you can make believe that the hole Black's death blasted in you is filled again--you think that playing this game of masks will make me chase you all the faster, all the hungrier, but you don't know that I'm not chasing you at all. It's you who comes down to my dungeons, it's you who's half-hard before you even knock at my door--and you're already thinking of where I'll fuck you tonight, wallsfloordesk a blur of lust-blinded heat in your mind, even as hatred for me, for yourself, boils bitter and hot as come in your stomach.

I've been playing at masks since before you were born, boy. Don't think that you can outplay me so quickly.

I don't need to state my ownership of you. To rip you apart with tooth and claw for your damned presumption. That I should be jealous. For you. You who I--hate--beyond all--

No. I don't need to state my ownership. It's written all over you. In you. In your rage. Your wrath. Your want. In your lust, in your self-pitying pathos--in your sickly, childish fantasy of a lover that caves to you, instead of making you cave to yourself. So much more humiliating, isn't it, when your body and your mind keep returning to me of their own volition--to their rightful owner? Do those dreamt-of promises of love mean anything to you, deluded Gryffindor, if you stumble back to the snake's den at last? Perhaps the taste of my poison is sweeter to you than his tears.

Yes, that's right. Flower with rage, you bitter, bright thing. Gnash your teeth at me. Let the green of your eyes darken with the need to destroyfuckdefeat me, crush me into the ground, be crushed by me. Let your hands clench and unclench as though buried in my hair--damp and heavy in your sweaty grip. Feel the blood thunder hotly in your throat, your face, your groin--wrath and lust inseparable, but so hungry hungry hungry that I must feed them both. You know I will, boy. I always give you what you need.

Punish me, you say. As though you don't want it--but the trembling of your voice betrays you. The rising of your cock. You need this, boy. You need me. My fist curled in your hair, tight and hurting, my tongue forcing your mouth open--my cock splitting you, burning you, until you rise and fall of your own accord and in your own hunger, coming all over your thighs and belly at the merest touch of my hand.

But there shall be a different punishment for you tonight.

You think that there are things I wouldn't dare do, is that it? That I fear a few paltry kisses, a few moments spent in silence, with you wrapped heavy and warm around me? That I've been alone all these years, and that the mastery of your body, that white harp so tightly strung and singing between my fingers--is a mere accident and not a skill born of practice? That there haven't been others before you, far more beautiful and graceful and giving, that have merited my affections and not only my lust?

Oh, I can play the game with you, Potter. I can give you a simulacrum of what you desire. I'll keep you here as long as I want to, undoing you bit by bit--perhaps binding your eyes first, having you kneeling naked on my bed while I stay clothed and circle around you, eyes gleaming but unseen, hands hungry but unfelt. Until the echo of every circling step makes your cock harder, your breath shorter. Until you are so impatient that when I finally do touch you, your face, your throat, your arms, you part your legs and pant and moan for me as if I were that dream-lover of yours.

And yes, I'll treat you that way. Softly. Carefully. Purely. I'll see how long you can stand it, this imagined Paradise--I'll see how long you can take it before you're begging as you always do, but this time I won't give you what you ask for. I won't return to that harsh, clean fucking. Instead I'll mould you and touch you and stroke you until the sheets are damp with your sweat and your tears and your come--until you're mewling, exhausted, writhing on the bed and coming despite yourself, again and again and again--until your muscles tremble with the effort and you go lax and silken against me, mindless, moaning, hips still moving in orgasm.

You think that I can't be gentle? Thorough? That I am so overcome with my--lust--that I need to swallow you whole, devour you, and throw you out of my dungeons before my aged, frightened heart dare contemplate intimacy?

What a child.

Let's see how much of your fantasy I manage to break, manage to shatter into so many glittering shards--so that no matter who touches you now, no matter who claims you in the future, there will be no inch of your skin that has not already been claimed by me, that has not been trained to sing to my touches so perfectly that the touch of any other jars. So that no matter what you dream, of having a kind ear to hear your desperate whispers, This is my beloved, untormenting, untormented--there will remain a thirst unquenched, a core untouched, a page of your mind unturned.

Go then, after you awaken in my bed at dawn--go back after leaving my bed, shivering and pale as light. Go back to your dormitory after donning your cold, rumpled uniform--go back tired and sore and aching and sated, anger surfacing from your sleeping mind. Knowing that you've been used, twisted, fooled again--knowing that now I've stolen even the shelter of your fantasy from you. Ruined it. Go back to your childhood world and try to dream again--of somebody else, of something else, of a soft comforting creature that you can hold close and call beloved--but how long will you stay with that phantom, I wonder?

For the dream grows cold.