Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Are you completely done with your Christmas shopping?”

“No! Dad forgot to buy gifts for the Dursleys. So, we had to go again.” He said lightly, laughing as they walked together that evening. “But I am not sure if it was actually a mistake like he claimed it to be.”

They moved through the crowd, past the frantic shoppers and the displays in the windows. The world around him was a blur. But Tom’s world was right in front of him, walking beside him with a carefree grin and the faintest blush on his cheek. He didn’t need to go anywhere else.

“Are you celebrating with them this year too?”

Harry paused, staring into the steaming cup of coffee in his hands. A quiet sigh escaping his lips. “I don’t know. I’m honestly... sick of it. I wish I didn’t have to.”

Tom’s chest tightened as his face fell. He could do anything to rip off that frown off his face and sew the biggest smile. A smile only because of him. Only for him.

He wasn’t one for holidays or festivities; he never understood the appeal of tacky decorations or overly sentimental traditions. But for Harry? He would string lights all over the place and bind everything in them until it could match the glow in his eyes.

But he wasn’t sure his proposal would be met with the same feelings. He wasn’t sure he yearned for Tom the way he did. Not yet, atleast. So, it was with hesitation he asked the question.

“Would you like to celebrate it with me?”

As expected Harry froze, his eyes wide in surprise. The pause stretched long enough for doubt to take place. Tom was not upset about it. He knew it would come. What he didn’t anticipate was for Harry to throw himself on him, engulf him in his warmth, covering Tom’s slender body with his own. It was like a coat of melted sugar on his skin, hot and scorching, yet extremely sweet. It wasn’t good for his health. But Tom couldn’t get enough.

If that was what he got for putting a stupid tree in his living room, Tom would turn the whole house green.

It was only a few days before Christmas, when he finally got his hands on Harry’s present.

Acquiring it had been difficult due to the high demand. But Tom being Tom couldn’t settle for anything less than perfection. Harry had been raving about it for months—before, during, and after their classes. It had taken refugee into Tom’s mind like an insistent melody, annoying, still you couldn’t get it out of your head.

At first, it had boiled the blood in his body, the way Harry’s eyes lit up when he spoke of it, the way his voice grew soft with admiration. Tom could hardly admit it to himself, but envy had prickled beneath his skin, like an unwelcomed guest. Yet, he couldn’t let such petty feelings take over.

If Harry wanted it, Tom would deliver. Overthinking had no place in this matter.

Afterall, the best gift you could give an artist was their muse.

And it was with a proud smile, he closed the door to his workshop, the lingering scent of varnish and clay clinging to the air. His brown eyes glistened like fresh blood as he watched light reflect off the surface.

He had to agree with his darling.

It really was beautiful.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to get you.” Harry’s voice was soft and he looked upwards at tom shyly. Tom had to gulp down his heart back into the place. Hold it down, so it didn’t burst open and drip down his ribcage.

Harry stretched his arms out, presenting a hurriedly wrapped gift. The paper was slightly crumpled, the ribbon a bit askew. Tom took it from his hand with care, fire burning where their fingers brushed for a moment.

He looked at Harry like he didn’t know what to do and he smiled back at tom, cheeks burning red from where he was sat near the fireplace.

“Open it.” He urged.

Tom unraveled the ribbon carefully, savoring every second. He couldn’t help but imagine how Harry wrapped it for him, thought about him as he chose the ribbon and drew the heart next to his name.

“Gloves!” He exclaimed softly, lifting the burgundy woolen pair.

They were impossibly soft, the material slipping like clouds between his fingers. There was another pair in royal blue, and Tom’s heart stuttered when he noticed the tiny initials embroidered neatly into the cuffs.

“You can never have too many,” Harry explained with a nervous laugh, his voice light. “Besides, you’re always tearing them or getting them dirty somehow.”

“I love them.”

Harry’s smile widened, and before he could process it, Harry’s hands were holding his, rough yet grounding.

“I’m glad.” He said.

It felt unreal. And Tom was afraid that this moment, this warmth, would dissolve into a dream he’d wake from. A memory he would not remember after few seconds. He wanted to hide him into his hands, cover every curve and edge of his body, so no one else can see. Till there’s no place left unmarked.

“So,” Harry said teasingly, “did you actually get me anything, or did you just invite me over to find an excuse to kiss me under one of the seven or more mistletoes you’ve placed everywhere?”

Tom froze, caught off guard, his mind blank except for the sensation of Harry’s hands still loosely holding his. He hadn’t realized how long they had been sitting holding hands. But could anyone blame him for forgetting everything else when Harry Potter, the youngest sculptor of the renowned Potter family, was this close to him?

“I do have something for you.” Tom replied when he came out of his thoughts. He pulled harry up and took him to the back of the house, their hands still intertwined. Heart beating as fast as his steps.

They reached the back room, and Tom stopped. He placed his hands gently over Harry’s eyes, grinning despite himself at Harry’s protests. “Are you ready?” he murmured, guiding Harry forward carefully. He could barely hear anything over the pounding in his ears.

“Tom, what is it?” Harry laughed, trying to swat Tom’s hands away.

“Okay, open your eyes.” Tom chuckled, his breath warm against Harry’s ear as he lowered his hands, sliding them down to rest around Harry’s waist. Cherishing the feel of being around him, so close he could breathe in his air.

The room seemed to still as Harry’s gaze fell on the sculpture before him. It was large, a strikingly lifelike depiction of his favorite model, every curve, every detail accurately replicated. Harry’s breath hitched as stepped closer, circling the sculpture as his fingers hovered just above its surface.

“Oh my God, Tom. Did you seriously make this? For me?”He turned back to tom, completely stunned and tom couldn’t be happier.

Tom nodded, his throat tight. “You like it? You’ve always admired him.” His voice wavered, unsure if he was asking a question or confirming the observation.

Harry turned to face Tom, his expression filled with awe. “I like you more than anything right now,” he said softly, and Tom felt something uncoil inside him. Relief, pride, joy—it was all too much and yet not enough. “I can’t believe you actually made this. For me.”

“Well,” Tom said, his voice quieter now, “you’ve talked about how perfect he is to sculpt. I thought—”

Harry cut him off with a laugh, looping his arms around Tom’s neck. “I guess I talked too much. Did I never bore you to death?”

“Never.” Tom’s hands found Harry’s waist, pulling him closer until no space remained between them. Harry’s eyes darkened, and Tom swore he could get lost in their brilliance forever. Heat spread through him, warm and consuming, as he leaned in closer.

“My gift looks pathetic in comparison,” Harry murmured, his lips inches from Tom’s.

“No, It’s perfect. Like you.”

Harry grinned, tilting his head. “So, do you want to stay here, or we can kiss under each one of your mistletoes?”

“He wants to what?!”

“Move in together,” Harry repeated.

“HARRY JAMES POTTER! WHAT?!” Hermione’s voice shot up several decibels, nearly causing Harry to flinch away from his phone.

“I know,” he said quickly, holding up his hands.

“Don’t tell me you agreed!”

“I mean—”

“Harry!” Hermione cut him off, and harry could imagine the expression she might be having. “You’ve known each other for a week! I hate to say it, but isn’t this a bit too soon? You don’t even know his middle name! What if he’s—oh, I don’t know—a serial killer or something?”

“It’s not that serious,” Harry sighed, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “We’re just trying things out, that’s all. If it works out, great. If it doesn’t, we’ll call it off. No harm done.”

“No harm done?! What if you disappear one day like that one model.”

Harry knitted his eyebrows in confusion.

“Like who?”

Harry stood in front of the sculpture Tom had gifted him, his eyes tracing the exquisite craftsmanship with awe. It was breathtaking, the kind of work that made you forget to blink. Tom was a genius—there was no other word for it. Some might criticize his unconventional choice of materials in his art, but Harry couldn’t deny the raw brilliance of Tom’s work.

Clay, wood, wax or bones—whatever Tom touched seemed to transform into something extraordinary. How could one person be so maddeningly perfect at everything?

Harry reached out, his fingers skimming over the delicate hairline, marveling at the intricate detail. “I can’t believe I might not he able to meet you in person,” he murmured to the statue, as though it could hear him. “I would’ve loved to sculpt you myself. But at least I have this—and a man even more beautiful, who could make a thousand more like you.”

The statue stood among others in Tom’s workshop, each one radiating an unsettling lifelikeness. Harry found himself circling it, his gaze flitting across the flawless surface. Something about the texture nagged at him. And more so it didn’t smell like anything he’d worked with before. His brows knit together as his toe accidentally caught the edge of the pedestal.

The sculpture toppled.

“Shit!” Harry lunged to catch it, but it was too late. The heavy piece hit the floor with a sickening crack, pieces of clay breaking from the top.

Heart racing, he knelt, his hands trembling as he inspected the damage. He tried to carefully turn the headpiece, and that’s when he saw it. Beneath the pristine outer layer, a dark material escaped through the jagged cracks.

“What the...” His voice trailed off, his breath catching in his throat. He leaned closer, peering at the black streaks glistening under the studio lights.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, panic struck.

“Tom!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. His mind raced with a thousand horrible scenarios, his heart thundering in his chest. “TOM!”

“What happened, my darling?” Tom asked, rushing into the room, his voice tinged with concern. He froze when he saw Harry standing there, his face a furious storm, holding the shattered piece of the sculpture in his trembling hands. “Is everything alright?”

Harry’s glare could have melted steel. “Is this what you call alright?” he snapped, holding up the broken fragment for emphasis.

Tom’s eyes flicked to the cracked piece, his expression softening into something almost tender. “Oh, Harry, it’s fine. You don’t have to worry about breaking it. Really, it’s—”

“What is this, Tom?” Harry interrupted, his voice trembling with equal parts anger and disbelief.

Tom hesitated, his lips parting to speak, but Harry cut him off before he could spin another word. “I’m asking you for the last time, is this a person inside the statue?”

The room fell silent, the air between them electric with tension.

“Yes, Harry,” Tom finally admitted, his voice low but steady, his dark eyes locked onto Harry’s. He hated this—this moment he’d dreaded since the beginning. The day when he would find out the truth. There was no running from it now.

Harry stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. His hands clenched around the broken clay, his knuckles turning white. “So you lied to me. You didn’t make it.”

Tom’s jaw tensed, and a faint smirk ghosted across his lips, not of amusement, but something darker. “I did make it,” he replied, his tone calm, almost soothing, like he was explaining something to a child. “I just had a… unique starting point.”

Harry’s breath hitched, as he screamed in rage. “You call this art? You turned a human being into—into this and wrapped it up as a gift?”

Tom stepped closer, his movements measured, his gaze unwavering. “It’s more than art, Harry. It’s preservation. It’s immortality.”

“Immortality?” Harry spat, recoiling as if the word itself burned. “You’re insane!”

“Am I?” Tom tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You admired him so much, talked about him like he was perfection itself. Now, he’s yours forever. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Harry’s chest heaved, his fury mingling with a sickening realization. “You didn’t do this for me. You did this for yourself. To prove something. To—to control something.”

Tom chuckled softly, the sound low and dangerous. “You see control. I see devotion.” He took another step closer, his gaze tracing Harry’s face like he was studying every detail, committing it to memory. “Everything I do, I do for you. And I’d do it all again if it means keeping you.”

Harry shook his head, taking a step back. “You’re delusional, Tom.”

“Maybe.” Tom’s smirk faded, his expression softening into something almost sincere. “But you’re still here. You’re still mine. And that’s all that matters.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharp and unwavering. “Am I?”

Tom’s gaze darkened, a flicker of something dangerous flashing in his eyes. “You’re not?” His voice turned cold, biting, as if the mere thought stung. “Are you saying you’ll choose the pathetic living corpse over me? That, over us—"

—over this?” He said as he surged forward, closing the space between them in an instant.

His hands gripped him with a desperation, and his mouth crashed onto Harry’s in a searing kiss. He drained every breath of life from Harry, pouring venom in its place, and Harry drank it willingly—greedily—chasing every last drop. He chased after it as if it was salvation.

It was maddening, addictive. Harry starved for it, his hands tangling in Tom’s hair as though he could tether himself to the madness. He hated it, hated Tom for the lies, for keeping him in the dark and yet he couldn’t stop.

Every ounce of fury bled into that kiss, every unspoken word, every doubt and desire, until Harry wasn’t sure where he ended, and Tom began.

When they finally broke apart, gasping for breath, Tom’s forehead rested against Harry’s, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles. “See?” he whispered, his voice low and possessive. “You’re mine.”

Harry didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His mind was a whirlwind and all he could do was stand there, his heart racing, his lips still burning from the kiss that felt like a brand.

“You were afraid, weren’t you?” Harry’s voice trembled, though whether from anger or something more, even he couldn’t tell. “Afraid I’d choose him. That you couldn’t measure up to him.”

“Measure up?” Tom’s laughter was sharp, cutting through the room like a blade. “Darling, he’s nothing compared to me. Or do you need more proof of that?”

Before Harry could respond, Tom seized his hand, his grip strong. He reached for the hammer resting on the workbench, its weight solid and cold in his grasp, and began walking toward the fallen sculpture.

With one decisive swing, the hammer came down, shattering the head of the sculpture. The thin clay crumbled away to reveal what lay beneath. Cedric’s preserved face, perfectly intact, his expression eerily lifelike. Blood oozed from the cracks in the white clay, staining the floor in contrast. It was beautiful even more like this.

“Tell me, Harry,” Tom said, his voice low and taunting, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. “Who’s lying helpless now, and who is it that you’re standing beside?” He gestured toward the lifeless body with a sneer. “He can’t even blink as I touch you. Can he, Harry?”

“You think you can touch me whenever you want, Tom?” Harry's voice was low, a dangerous edge laced with his rage. Before Tom could respond, Harry’s hands gripped his shirt and tore it apart, trapping him against the floor.

Harry’s lips descended on Tom’s neck, his tongue tracing a streak up to his jawline before biting down sharply. Tom gasped, the sting of pain mingling with an overwhelming pleasure as blood beaded from the fresh wound. It felt like heaven. He moaned softly, his arms winding around Harry, his nails scraping across Harry’s back.

Clothes were shredded, fabric falling in to the floor as their bodies collided. Desperation seeped into their movements as kisses turned feverish. Tom’s fingers tangled in Harry’s hair, tugging roughly as Harry thrust into him with no preparation, no preamble—just raw need.

The sensation was electric and Tom’s head tipped back, his mouth open in a silent cry as Harry drove into him, each motion a declaration. Tom felt like he was worshipping his own god, impaled and claimed. He never wanted it to end, wanted to stay locked in the connection, endlessly taking Harry into himself. Worshipping him forever.

As he moved, his gaze landed on Cedric’s lifeless face peering out from the shattered remains of the piece. The haunting stare of the dead man only increased Tom’s satisfaction. His smirk curled wickedly as Harry pounded into him, his rhythm uncompromising.

“More,” Tom gasped, his voice breathless and unsteady. “Rougher—please, Harry. More!”

But Harry stopped.

Tom froze, looking back over his shoulder, his face etched with surprise.

“Harry!” he whined, his voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Move, please!”

Harry’s face was flushed, his eyes dark as he leaned closer, his breath hot against Tom’s ear. “You touch me because I let you, Tom. Never forget that.”

Tom trembled beneath him, nodding frantically. “I know. I’ve never thought otherwise. Please, Harry—please.”

“Will you ever lie to me again?” Harry’s voice cracked slightly, anger bleeding into vulnerability as he searched Tom’s gaze.

Tom reached up, cradling Harry’s face in his hands, his lips brushing against Harry’s in a desperate kiss. “Never. I’ll never lie to you again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Tom murmured, his sincerity unmistakable.

With one final, forceful thrust, Harry buried himself deep, his release washing over them both. Tom’s vision went white, his body trembling as he let out a loud moan.

The lifeless eyes of Cedric’s corpse stared back at him, unblinking, as Tom gained another life. He was nothing more one of the countless decorations looming around him, silent witnesses to Tom’s win. There were plenty of them yet Tom could only focus on Harry, his precious Harry, his devil and his god.

Tom kissed every curve of Harry’s face, could never stop. Harry held his jaw firmly, kissing him open-mouthedly. And Tom groaned into it, completely lost, consumed by the man who owned his very being.

“Did you see this, Harry? Another missing person case this month.” Ron frowned, holding up the newspaper.

Harry glanced up from his coffee, his expression unbothered. “Looks like we’ll have to be more careful.”

Ron snorted. “Careful? You say that like you don’t live with a walking red flag.”

Harry smirked, swirling his coffee lazily. “Speaking of which, are you coming to the exhibition tonight?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Ron replied. Then, narrowing his eyes, he added, “Is your boyfriend going to be there too?”

“Hmm.” Harry’s lips curled into a knowing smile as he took another sip of his coffee.

Ron groaned, throwing his hands up. “Great. Another night of pretending not to notice him glaring holes into my skull. Lovely.”

“You’ll survive,” Harry teased, setting his mug down. “Maybe he’ll even warm up to you eventually.”

“Warm up? Harry, the man looks like he wants to turn me into one of his creepy art projects. How are you so calm about this?”

“Come on. He would never.”