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Notes: The second part of the Simulacra series. Please see the central menu for the prequel and the sequels.

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How do you imagine me?

How you imagine me is entangled with how I imagine you. We've seen each other's minds, after all, rustled the pages of each other's thoughts--mirror reflections, opposites, your skin the white wax to my black blood, your heart the red, roiling fire to my ice. Except that you dare to imagine me when my ice cracks--you love to trace your fingers along me, along the broken fissures of my soul, which is why I hate you in my mind and I hate you in my room, and I make sure to break you every time. To break you first.

You imagine me as both man and myth--the myth I was when you first came to Hogwarts and saw me across the hall, watching you, eyes sharp and black and glittering. I made you think of broken glass then, and of how you'd cut your fingers on it when your Aunt Petunia told you to gather it up--you remember the sweet, sharp pain of it, and since then you've always wanted to know, always, what lay behind my eyes.

I suppose you've had your wish granted. You see me as a man too, now. You see me as a black shadow in the Quidditch stands, when you race past on your Firebolt--you see me as a pale smudge of a face turned up to you--and you like to imagine that there is a spark of concern behind my stern features, that my fingers are tight around my wand in case you fall. Afterwards, in the shower, it isn't the rush of catching the Snitch that makes you hard, but the victory of seeing my eyes wander down your sweat-slicked neck when you dismounted your broom. You imagine me down in my dungeons, where you're sure my quick steps took me after the match--you imagine me with my robes hastily undone and my fingers around my cock, which you imagine as large and angry and purple, and it is the thought of my face, twisted in orgasm, the sight of my spunk darkening the damp wood of my desk, that makes you dig your forehead into the shower tiles and come.

You imagine my voice saying other things, commanding other things when you're in Potions class--and it isn't until I insult you, until I bite, that I see the glaze in your eyes make way for anger, as clear and sharp as green glass.

You imagine me imagining you. You know I do, after our misbegotten Occlumency sessions--and you know that I know that you know, and that I pretend not to. You imagine me as a predator or a bird of prey, sitting poised behind my desk, black eyes glittering, my fingers white claws around its edges as I watch you brew your potion, make a hash of it. You imagine me imagining you, imagining dirty things, sweet things, and sometimes you think you see yourself reflected in my eyes, nothing but a bundle of tender bones and skin, white and soft for my sharp teeth, my mouth. Prey. You imagine this, but the whisper-soft brush of my mind against yours makes you wonder if it is just imagination--and you clamp yourself shut, afraid of being seen, afraid of not being seen, wanting me to discover you and rage about it, lust about it, and drag you down to my dungeons to eat.

Sometimes, when you're courageous, or when you're morbid, you imagine me on my missions. You're not a fool, not all the time, and you know that there is more to me than mere hunger, even if it is hunger that you most often see from me. You imagine me standing stiffly in a crowd of black-cowled predators, predators like me, their cloaks rustling like feathers in the night wind. You imagine firelight glinting off the implacable white of my mask, beneath which you imagine my face, tightly controlled and damp with sweat--you imagine the nervous heat of my body, the sickening fear in my gut, as I am called forth by Voldemort. You don't care to imagine Voldemort's red eyes, his sibilant voice, because you've seen those in visions often enough--you care only about me, see only me, as I step forward and point my wand at the Muggle, tonight's Muggle, bound and given to me on her knees. You imagine no hesitation in the swift arc of my arm, the smooth muttering of the curse--you imagine that my hand trembles not a bit as she twists and screams and breaks. Your only mercy is that you imagine the pupils behind my mask's eyes dilated with horror--but you don't imagine any regret on my hidden face, which is calm and still even though it glistens with sweat--and though my black hair clings to it, you know that my expression will be placid, even pleased.

When you imagine me like that you hate me, hate me for my capacity to do such things, even if for a greater cause--you hate that cause then, and you hate Dumbledore, and you hate Voldemort, but most of all you hate me. You want to throw up when you imagine me like this, and I seem so very different from the man you sometimes imagine caressing you softly, making you moan and sigh--you hate it when you imagine the things I do, and why I do them. You hate it when you grow hard imagining how unshakable I am, how unbreakable I am, how I don't flinch from anything I see, anything I do. You hate me for making you touch yourself when you imagine me, even at my worst--you hate it that the deception of my face, such a blank white wall against Voldemort, moves not even a little bit in mercy. You hate me for making you forget about the Muggle, for making you see only the unrepentant line of my arm, black-cuffed and steady, my fingers cruel around my wand as you imagine them, suddenly, around your cock. You hate me for making you hate yourself--hate yourself for being so stupid, for being so perverse, for having no control over yourself. Boy. You imagine my sharp voice sneering. You imagine me standing there, casting Crucio after Crucio, until my voice nearly cracks with it--and you remember what Bellatrix Lestrange had said, about being able to cast it--and you think, if he can cast it so many times... And yes, you grow even harder at that. When you come in your bed, soiling your sheets and turning your face aside to bite your pillow, your hair is damp with sweat and your eyes are hot with tears, and your hand too is wet, wet, wet, and in your imagination you see me taking off my mask, smiling cruelly, and you wipe yourself off quickly and stumble to the Gryffindor toilets to vomit into a sink.

For days afterwards you barely look at me, afraid of seeing that smile again--afraid of the heat you feel when you imagine it--but you can't resist imagining me for long, because it's become a daytime habit of yours, as well as a night-time one, so you return to your safer fantasies. There I am still a beast, but a nobler one--and when my hand steadies yours over a ladle as you stir your potion, ostensibly to instruct you, my grip is warm and my face is cool, and you reassure yourself, let yourself be aroused by something so much more commonplace, so much more normal, and you don't imagine the other side of me until you've gathered your courage again.

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