Sinope's Fiction: Prisms

Title: Prisms
Author: Sinope at (no spam!) gmail dot com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Snape/Harry
Warning: Underage sexuality, dubious consent.
Summary: Harry responds defiantly.
Author's notes: Third in the Simulacra Series, written in response to Switchknife's Reflections.
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fan work. No profit was made; no ownership is implied.

How do you imagine me?

You think you know me, don't you? I know your kind - Hermione's like that, too, thinking that by understanding everything, she can control it. You think that if you hit upon the correct insights, calculate the perfect buttons to push, that then I'll squirm and beg and moan, and you'll win.

Well, you're wrong, and I don't care how right you are, you're still wrong. You think that because you can take this skinny boy off his broom, tug him into the broom closet, make him spread his legs and whimper until you fuck him - you think that means you control him? You can't control me, and as long as I can remember the feeling of sun and wind and the Snitch in my fingers, you never will.

That's why you can't escape, isn't it? You like to think that the whole arrangement is simple, a triumph of your logic: you fuck me because I'm innocent enough for you to destroy, and I fuck you because you know the right words to concoct the perfect potion of possession - ten drops of guilt, a handful of finely cut rage, a cauldron-full of lust, stir counter-clockwise until simmering. As if that mattered. You couldn't force me with the Imperius curse unless I let you, and you can't force me with this, either; somewhere, I bet you know how cheap your victory is, and that's why you keep coming back for more.

You talk about seeing my thoughts through Occlumency. Don't you know that Occlumency shows you nothing but yourself? I know I saw myself in your thoughts - I saw the little boy who cowered before his parents, who raged against the school bullies, and I saw myself and hated you for it. Do you hate me because you see yourself in my thoughts? Do you hate me because you feel my memories of trying not to look at the other boys in the showers, of touching myself in guilty exploration, of getting hard even from someone as ugly as you? What you're seeing, Professor - that's not me. That's you. I know how much more than that I am, and I know that when I escape your dungeons for the last time, I'm going to live and dream and be a thousand different people, none of them you.

You know that boy named Harry, the one who lives in your mind? I made him. I couldn't make the Boy Who Lived, and I couldn't make James Potter's son, but I could make him. The one who stuck his finger down his throat night after night, learning not to gag for when he blushingly opened his lips for your cock - the one who froze in fear (but not surprise) the first time you touched your cold hand to his side - him, I can control. I watch your eyes almost as fiercely as you watch mine, and I know the way your pupils dilate, black widening to darker black, when you like what you see. I remember everything, and I remember most that you want me never to forget.

As for me: do I imagine you, think of you, fantasize about you? Of course I do. It's not my fault that I want to bury my hands in the rippling of your cloaks, want to watch your face contort until your lips stretch, gasping, to palest white. You fuck me and I come because I'm a teenaged boy, but that's all. It's not me. None of this is.

But do you know where you're most wrong, Professor? You want to think I need you, that I savour and treasure the moments when you let yourself care. I know that you count each gift, each touch, each sleepy kiss: you count them, and I melt in gratitude for every one. Then, when I'm naked beside you, smeared with your come, hazy-eyed and thankful, you think that you've won.

You're wrong. As long as I know what you want, as long as I can choose to give it to you, you'll never win.

(go here for Snape's response.)

finis.