Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cadaver, corpse, a body's just a body
and yes, I'm guilty, sleeping with the dead
it loves me, then it doesn't love me.
Carlo Rey Laurena Mar 2020
The Necrophile's Soliloquy

*

How odd,

the fragile stance of human morality,

that if it's done to others there must be doubt,

But if it's done to you, there is no question. 

It begins, as most love stories do, with fascination.

Tom moves like ink spilled over parchment—dark, fluid, irrevocable. His voice, when he speaks, is a hushed, intimate thing, curling soft at the edges like candle smoke in the dark. He sees Harry in ways no one else does, his gaze a blade pressed beneath his chin, tilting his head up, exposing his throat, and whispering, Look at me, love, there’s nothing else in this world that matters.

And Harry believes him.

He is seventeen and restless, a body with no one to claim home to, a mind so eager to have relief from hurt, and Tom is a force so immense, so utterly inevitable, that resistance is an absurdity. There is no before Tom Riddle. No world outside the realm of his fingertips, his voice, the quiet amusement in his eyes when Harry bristles or falters. Tom loves him with such precision, such delicate artistry, that Harry feels sculpted by his affections.

He is the creation of his love. 

There is nothing as beautiful as when one fits so well, Tom murmurs one night, tracing the fine bones of Harry’s wrist as if he were something divine. And we fit very well darling. 

Harry, young and stupid with love, thinks this might be true.

But love, if it is love at all, Harry is to slowly learn...it is not a soft thing. Not in Tom’s hands.

It is not soft at all. 

“Fuck, Harry,” Tom growled, his lips crashing into Harry’s and the breath knocked out of him. It's always like this, never a slow build or a warning, simply an earthquake and a tide that would quickly drown him, burn him.

Their love is nothing less than intense and raw passion.

Slotted lips, curved to fit the other, desperate and hungry, tongues clashing in a dance, simply growing the swirl of desire. Harry’s hands clawed at Tom’s shirt, he's pretty sure a pocket is torn, fingers fumbling with the buttons, pluck, oh that's gone. Tom’s own hands were already tugging at his belt at Harry's.... The clink of metal hitting the floor echoed in the room, Tom’s trousers pooled at his ankles, and Harry’s own pants were pushed down with urgency, the fabric catching on his thighs before Tom yanked them free. Tom never once let him go.

Harry couldn't hear anything, their bedroom drowned out by their ragged breaths.

Harry's glasses snatched off his face and tossed aside without care. Harry freely pinched and touched Tom’s chest, his shoulders, his back—pulling him closer, just come closer.

Without warning, Tom lifted Harry clean off the ground, his strong hands gripping the curve of his bare ass. Harry instinctively wrapped his legs around Tom’s waist, his back arching as their chest met and he began gyrating, using one arm to steady himself around Tom's shoulder. They groaned in unison, the friction of their cocks teasing against each other was almost too much. Harry’s fingers tangled in Tom’s dark hair, to pull him into another kiss, deeper, as if he could devour him whole.

"I want you." Harry crooned, "I want you so bad." 

In a half roguish smile that made Tom younger than he was, he nipped Harry's bottom lip and carried him to the bed. God, his strength made Harry's insides squirm. Harry’s back hit the plush mattress, and he bounced once, his breath hitching as he stared up at Tom with his tousled hair. The man was a vision, yes, outside he exuded the perfect persona of a man well kept. But here in the privacy of them, he was wild, untamed, and utterly intoxicating.

Harry's never felt more powerful than seeing the mad glint, the rare manic in Tom's eyes. Hungry for me.

Harry’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his lips parted as he watched Tom rummage through a drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube.

Tom’s eyes locked onto Harry’s as he slicked himself up, his stance strong, confident and hand moving with a practiced ease, the sound of that slick slick made Harry’s mouth water. He wanted to lick the pre-cum beading at the tip of Tom’s cock, wanted to taste him, to feel him, to lose himself in him completely. Harry reached for his own cock, his fingers wrapping around it in a tight grip. He let out a low moan, his eyes never leaving Tom’s as he stroked himself to hardness, his other hand gripping the sheets for support.

"Come on, baby." He urged Tom.

Tom prowled toward the bed, the muscles of his shoulders rolling, the tones, shades and lines made Harry's heart slash into a stutter. He can't believe he gets this all to himself. Harry’s breath hitched as Tom climbed onto the mattress, straddling him with a possessive ease. His hand found Harry’s throat, fingers wrapping around it in a grip that was firm, oh Harry loves it when he is firm, the tightness hard enough to make Harry's brain feel the pressure, his lungs sting and he opens his mouth dry, tongue out begging. Tom doesn't yield, staring at him with a feral smile. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed, his body straining for a moment more before he forced himself to relax. Harry opened the palm of his hands. He trusted Tom—trusted him completely—and the thought of surrendering, of giving over control, made his cock leak rivers. 

"Fuck, you really love this shit." A final squeeze and he loosens his grip, Harry gasped in air and Tom's kisses. "You really are something."Tom’s thumb brushed against Harry’s pulse point, “You’re so alive." 

Harry's mind is in a half daze. 

"So are you." 

He rewarded Harry with a full smile. 

Harry settled into his new life with quiet determination. Moving in with Tom had been easy, seamless even. The flat was grand but not ostentatious, with towering bookshelves, velvet drapes, and a constant hum of magic in the air. It felt like stepping into a world that didn’t just belong to Tom—but was Tom. Everything bore his touch, his preference, his quiet dominance.

Tom was wealthy, comfortable enough that Harry never had to lift a finger if he didn’t want to. He could have been a kept man, draped in silk and luxury, waiting to be adorned with gifts and sweet words. But Harry had some pride—or at least, he thought he did. He wanted to work, to learn, to do something with his time.

Tom hadn't liked the idea at first. His displeasure was never loud, never an argument. Instead, it was a quiet hum beneath his words, a faint edge to his otherwise perfect smile.

"You don't have to do this, Harry. I can take care of you."

"I know," Harry had replied, "but I want to."

Tom sighed but relented. He always relented when it was something small. Harry had noticed that—Tom let him win the battles that didn't matter.

So, Harry found work at a small bookstore in the heart of town. The place smelled of old parchment and ink, a comforting scent that wrapped around him like a warm embrace. It was quiet, peaceful, filled with stories waiting to be discovered.

Tom tolerated it. Barely. But everything else—the big things, the real things—Tom decided. He set the rules, the expectations, the lines Harry wasn’t meant to cross. That wasn’t a problem. Tom was older. Tom knew things. He had seen more of the world, understood its mechanics. It was only natural that Harry should listen.

"Control is the only way to survive," Tom would say, long fingers tracing circles against Harry’s wrist. "Some things are good, some things are bad. But only fools let someone else decide which is which."

Some of the things he said sounded... odd. Not wrong, not bad, but just—not quite right.

But Harry didn’t question him. He wasn’t ungrateful.

How could he be? He hadn't been raised knowing. He hadn't been raised loved.

"But I love you," Tom murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s temple, his breath warm against his skin. "You know that, don’t you?"

"I love you too."

And that was that. There was nothing wrong. Nothing wrong at all.

Luna worked the till at the bookstore. She was odd in a way that felt freeing—like she existed outside the rules of the world, untethered, unburdened. Harry liked listening to her talk, how her mind drifted from books to writers to philosophy to dreams, all in one seamless breath.

They became friends easily. Maybe because Harry didn’t have many.

But even this—this ease, this small pocket of warmth—felt like something that would not last. Sooner or later, she wouldn’t understand either.

"Are you alright?" Luna asked one evening, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she watched him.

Harry blinked. What an odd question.

"I’m fine."

She didn’t look away. Didn’t nod and move on.

She just stared.

It wasn’t the kind of staring people did when they were waiting for an answer. It was the kind of staring people did when they already knew the answer and were just waiting for you to admit it.

"You’re lying."

Something small, something uncertain—shift.

Harry's bent on the sofa, with Tom looming over him, his fingers tightened slightly around Harry’s throat. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed again, God, was this normal, to be okay with the idea of being slowly choked and taken, and unable to breathe in the moment. This pain, pressure didn't scare him at all, it only made his heart race and his excitement only grew, a soft moan escaping his lips, Tom's lips is close, his ragged exhale against his strained face, as if taunting Harry for being unable to. The heat of this body above him, the weight of his presence, the sheer dominance of him. 

Harry's mind spun, his cock strained so hard against Tom's bare thighs, still his arms flailed above his head, unmoving, not fighting. Taking, taking. 

Tom's lips brushing against Harry’s empty gasps. “You’re going to take everything I give you,” he whispered, his voice a low growl. “And you’re going to love it.”

Harry blinked. Yes, yes, yes. 

Tom released the pressure and Harry inhaled sweet cold air, but before he could centre himself Tom lifted his legs above his shoulders, folding him on the edge of the couch, gripping firmly on his hips and pressed into Harry's wet hole in one thrust.

Harry screamed, head thrown back, leg muscles trembling, and his fingers clawing his chest. It was overwhelming—the instant stretch, the heat, the sheer fullness of it. But it was also exactly what he needed, what he craved. Tom didn't slow his pace and Harry, through moans and whimpers, adjusted quickly. 

"Hands crossed behind your head."

"Ungh."

"Harry."

He obliged, still being pounded like a freshly made sour dough. Tom’s hand returned to Harry’s throat, his grip tightening just enough to send a jolt of pleasure. Harry’s eyes rolled back, Tom's hips snap forward relentlessly, "Fucking perfect." Harry's mouth fell open as he moaned. He felt owned, claimed, in a way that he never had before. God, god, it was intoxicating.

Harry’s legs tightened around him, his heels digging into Tom’s back as he pulled him closer, deeper. Their breaths mingled, their moans blending together, and they lost themselves in each other, in the heat, the friction, and the need.

"Uh, uh, uh!"

“I want to hear it,” Tom growled, though clenched teeth, sweat on his forehead and hair a beautiful ruin, “I want to hear it, Harry!”

"Oh Tom, TOM!"

Harry's body lifting from the couch on its own accord, fireworks of white hot pleasure exploded through him, his release coating his stomach in hot, sticky stripes, coming untouched. Tom followed soon after, his thrusts becoming erratic, his grip on Harry’s throat tightening just enough to make the stars behind Harry’s eyes burst into supernovas.

His orgasm and suddenly the lack of oxygen made him unable to move, Tom kept thrusting and pushing deeply into Harry, jostling him like a rag doll. 

Tom finally came with a cry and fell atop of Harry, his fingers loosened and Harry inhaled sharply, a second dive into pleasure.

His heart pounding, his breathing burns as he comes down from his high and feels Tom’s fingers trailing down to rest on his chest. 

They just lay there for a moment, their breaths calming and Harry weakly grinned. 

Without a word, Tom leaned down, his lips brushing against Harry’s in a kiss that was surprisingly soft, tender, even. 

“You’re so alive,” Tom murmured against his lips. 

Yes. Sleepily Harry kissed his damp neck and intertwined his two hands around his neck.  

“Mine and alive.”

What an odd thing to say.

It does not happen all at once. It is slow, almost imperceptible, like a candle burning down to its wick. Tom does not take; he peels, layer by layer, gently, methodically, until Harry no longer knows where he begins and Tom ends. He does not forbid—but he does remind, he does ask, he does comment, tilts his head, runs his fingers through Harry’s hair and whispers, Are they really your friends? Would they love you like I do? He does not command—he merely suggests, You don’t need them, love. You have me. Isn’t that enough?

And Harry, desperate to be enough, lets the world outside his periphery slip away.

When was the last time he saw Hermione? When was the last time Ron’s laugh warmed his chest?

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. They do not understand. No one understands but Tom.

Harry hears of the Longbottoms first.

Their bodies were found in their home, untouched by struggle, unmarked by violence. They were laid out neatly, side by side, their hands folded across their chests as if prepared for burial, their expressions eerily serene—like lovers slipping into sleep. No blood. No signs of struggle. 

Then it was Albus Dumbledore.

The newspapers didn't say much. A great politician, a visionary, taken too soon. Found alone, slumped over his desk, his silver spectacles still perched on the bridge of his nose. It could have been a peaceful death if not for the mark. 

There was always a mark.

The city shifted. People stayed inside. Mothers clutched their children’s hands in the streets, eyes darting to every shadow, every passing figure. Doors were locked before nightfall. The news droned on about a serial killer. 

Tall. Possibly male.

A black coat. A skeletal mask.

A snake and a skeleton graffiti. The Dark Mark they said. 

Harry shuddered.

He tried not to stay out too late.

Accidents.

Disappearances.

People missing. Names he can't forget.

"Harry, we're really worried about you."

Hermione's voice shook over the phone, raw with exhaustion. "We've tried everything to contact you, but we couldn't. Are you okay? What's happening?"

Harry swallowed, he's gripping the phone tighter and closer to his ear, he's cold even though he's in the comfort of his home. 

"It's not what you think," he said. "Hermione, I'm fine."

"Harry, I'm scared. We wanna see you."

"Hermione-"

"People keep dying."

People keep dying.

.

.

.

They tracked him down at his store.

"Mate, something's not right," Ron said, visiting Harry at the book store. He's looking at Harry as if he's seeing a ghost. "Something isn't right with you and I can't let you do this."

"I'm living with Tom." Harry tried to insist. "You can't- you can't just tell me to leave him!"

"Something's not right." Hermione insisted. "Harry, we're getting threatening phone calls, and they are saying things on the news about a pattern, and there are rumours."

"What rumours?!"

"That he's Voldemort." She whispered. "The serial killer." 

Harry stepped back in shock, "How can you say that? He's my boyfriend!" 

Ron yanked his arm forward and exposed Harry's wrist, and revealed the ugly blue bruise bracelet, "Did he do this to you?" 

"It's not what you think-!"

It's not.

Really.

.

.

. 

Harry burrowed deeper beneath the covers, pressing himself into the warmth of the mattress. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar and something richer, muskier—Tom’s scent, wrapping around him, he loves surrounding himself with it. It makes him feel safe. His fingers curled into the fabric, stroking absently over the smooth, silken texture. The duvet was impossibly soft, like a cocoon, lulling him into safety, into quiet.

But,

Prickles of static danced along the back of his mind, subtle, nagging. Like an itch beneath the skin, scratch scratch scratch. 

His eyes flickered open, heavy with sleep, adjusting to the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows stretched across the ceiling, long and lazy, draped over the room like thick, velvety curtains. It was so easy to let them blend into the dark, to let himself sink—but then his gaze drifted, tracing along the smooth line of Tom’s sleeve, and—

"Tom?"

"Go back to sleep, my love."

A speck of red.

Barely there, just at the cuff, staining the pristine white fabric. Not fresh, but not old either. It caught the light for a flicker of a second—just a coincidence, surely.

Harry's breath hitched, but he forced himself to look away, to ignore it.

The shadows hid nothing. Of course, they didn’t.

Suddenly it's hard for him to sleep. 

Suddenly the bed, the smell feels suffocating. 

Harry turned over, curling against Tom’s side, his face pressing into the crisp fabric of his shirt. Warm. Steady. Safe. He's safe. Tom returned to bed, an arm slid around him, fingers brushing lightly over the curve of his waist, a silent reassurance.

Nothing to fear.

Nothing to question.

But his thoughts betrayed him.

A memory—the drawer.

The one he had accidentally pulled open just days ago, looking for a pen. Tom always told him not to touch his stuff, but it was unlocked that day and he was looking. 

Well arranged knives, lined in perfect, precise rows.

A handgun, sleek and deadly, nestled among them.

Harry quickly kept them closed. Tom was always on about safety. He cared deeply about protecting himself. 

Surely it was nothing. Another coincidence. Just another coincidence.

His fingers twitched.

Tom's arm was heavy, he must have fallen asleep. Harry's gaze flickered to the closet door, something fell out of it. His shoes, speckles of green paint. 

Coincidences.

Just coincidences.

The duvet was soft. The warmth was real. Tom’s arm around him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the slow, even breath against Harry’s temple—all of it was real.

He exhaled, shoving the thoughts down, down, where they couldn’t touch him.

The shadows hid nothing.

Just go to sleep.

.

.

.

"TOM!" Harry screamed, panicking, running. Dropping his phone with a crash. "TOM!"

Harry’s lungs clenched, the very air had been torn from them, leaving only a gaping, clawing wound in its place. The words—a car, a lake, two bodies—spun in his skull, rattling, fracturing, carving deep into his bones. His breath came fast, sharp, shallow, as though his ribs had turned to iron bands, tightening, tightening, too tight—he couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t think past the suffocating, ragged pulse hammering in his throat.

This wasn't the pleasant choking, the one that made him aroused and safe. This was... this was...

His vision blurred, trembling as he stumbled forward, straight into Tom’s chest. Strong arms caught him, pulled him in. Harry's fingers curled into the fabric of Tom’s shirt, nails biting into skin.

"Tom!" He broke into a sob. Too fast, too much—his body heaved, descending violently as though it were rejecting reality itself, but the truth wouldn’t unhook itself from his chest. 

Tom’s hands were steady as they smoothed over his back, fingers curling at the nape of his neck, pressing him in, grounding him. "Breathe, Harry."

He opened his mouth and nothing came out. 

One hand wrapped around his neck, squeezing harshly. And Harry's hands automatically grasped at them, head pounding, unable to breathe, choking.

"I will release you and you will breathe." 

He did and Harry gulped in large amounts of air, half falling into Tom again. He coughed, but the spinning reduced. 

"Darling-"

The pain was still there. 

"They found them," he choked out, voice so thin, so small it barely belonged to him. "In the lake." His chest seized again, his breath hitching, cracking apart as he buried himself deeper against Tom’s warmth, as if that alone could shield him from the truth.

Tom exhaled slowly. Caressing Harry's sobbing form. "I'm sorry Darling." 

"They're gone!" He whimpered, hot tears, his eyes unable to see anything but the misery of the flood. "They're-they're-"

"Shhhh. I'm here, I'm here." 

Tom told Harry he should quit his job. He should grieve. He should rest.

So, Harry did.

"Let me take care of you, darling," Tom had murmured, pressing soft kisses to his temple, his lips warm, his hands steady.

Love. This is love. This is what lovers do. Harry is grateful. So grateful.

But—

Days stretch long when you have nothing to fill them. The bed is soft, but he can’t just lie there all day. So, he moves. He cleans. The kitchen, the living room, the bed. Small things. Safe things. Things he can control.

Then—the closet.

The door is slightly ajar, just a sliver, as if it had been nudged open by accident.

Tom is busy. Tom is always busy. He doesn't notice the small things—doesn’t need to, not when Harry takes care of them. And Harry has never needed to open this closet before. But he’s cleaning, and just to be thorough, he reaches for the handle.

The thought barely registers—Tom does the laundry for them.

Harry is lucky. He has a partner who shares the chores, even when he’s working.

He pulls the door open.

At first, there’s nothing unusual. Shelves stacked neatly, folded clothes in perfect order. A faint scent of cedar and Tom’s cologne lingers in the air. Normal. So normal.

But then—his gaze drifts lower.

Something peeks out from beneath the shadowed space at the bottom.

A slip of paper. No—a photograph.

Harry frowns. He bends down, fingers brushing against the cool floor as he picks it up. It’s stiff, worn at the edges. The print old, a little curled.

Familiar.

The blood drains from his hand.

It’s his photo. Him, Ron, Hermione.

Taken years ago, back when they were young, arms slung over each other, grinning into the camera.

He knows where this photo should be.

Ron kept it in his wallet. Always.

The world around him tilts. A dull, sick feeling uncoils in his stomach, twisting, climbing up his throat.

The closet is open now.

Wide open.

He should fight back, he should ask, but he's powerless against the smile. 

Harry is sprawled beneath him, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of their shared pleasure. (For Harry, his is mingled with a little guilt). 

He should ask. He should ask now.

With a sharp, almost animalistic growl, Tom grabbed Harry by the hips and flipped him over onto his stomach, the sudden movement making Harry gasp. Harry’s face pressed into the plush duvet, his fingers clutching at the sheets as he felt Tom’s weight settle over him, dominating him completely.

Tom’s hand slid up Harry’s back, his fingers splaying possessively against his skin, and then, without warning, he leaned down and bit into the soft flesh of Harry’s shoulder. The sharp sting of teeth made Harry cry out, a mix of pain and pleasure coursing through him as Tom’s lips sealed over the mark, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise.

His breath was hot, beside Harry's ear, sending shivers down Harry’s spine as he pulled back, his teeth grazing the fresh bite. "Let's go again."

"Again?" Harry weakly protested but his body was already responding to the roughness, the power in Tom’s touch. 

Tom’s hands were everywhere, rougher now, and Harry's will crumbled. He gripped Harry’s hips, lifting them slightly, and Harry felt the blunt tip of Tom’s cock pressing against his freshly cummed entrance. There was no gentleness this time, no slow buildup. Tom pushed into him with a single, hard thrust, and Harry moaned, the sound muffled by the sheets as his body stretched to accommodate him.

“Fuck, Tom,” Harry gasped, his fingers clawing at the bed as Tom began to move, setting a punishing -it felt angry-pace that left no room for thought. Each thrust drove Harry further into the mattress, he's dizzy, he's angry, he has to, he has to.

Tom’s hands slid up Harry’s back, one gripping his shoulder while the other tangled in his hair, pulling his head back sharply so his neck was exposed.

Tom leaned down, his lips brushing against Harry’s ear as he whispered, his voice a dark, sultry murmur that sent a jolt of heat straight to Harry’s core. “You love this, don’t you? Being mine, letting me fuck you like this. You’re so fucking beautiful when you’re like this, Harry—so fucking perfect.”

Harry’s mind is blank, Tom’s words washed over him, dark and filthy and so arousing. He could feel his cock twitching, already hard again by the intensity of it all.

Is this who I am? So easily undone? 

“Tom—ack, wait-,” Harry choked out, his voice breaking as Tom’s thrusts grew harder, faster, driving them closer to the edge with every movement. Tom’s hand tightened in his hair, pulling his head back further, and Harry could feel the heat of his body pressing against him, crowding him, consuming him.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Tom growled, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “I just want to destroy you."

You have. Harry sobbed. Terribly deeply. 

Tom released his grip and Harry's face fell into the sheets, grunting as Tom’s cock hit that spot inside him, he's going to crash and burn, there is no other way out of this but in ruins... 

“Come for me, Harry,”

He cried out, his voice raw and broken, and Tom groaned above him and began to punish him some more.

“That’s it,” Tom snarled, resuming his grip on Harry’s hair, pressing his face into the sheets and he fucked him through his orgasm, “Take it, Harry. Take everything I give you.”

Harry's world is dark and lacking oxygen. But his mind is so clear.

I take everything you gave me. Every dark despicable thing.

His grip on him finally loosening as he collapsed onto him, their bodies slick with sweat and trembling with the aftershocks.

They lay panting and Harry's world comes crashing onto him again.

What have I-

How can I-

Tom’s hand slid down Harry’s back, traced the curve of his sweaty spine. 

“You’re shaking.” 

"No, I'm not." Harry exhaled, glad his face is hidden in the covers, so Tom can't see his tears. 

I'm not afraid. 

Tom killed them. Tom, who cups Harry’s face in his hands, who speaks his name like it is a spell, who stole him from the world piece by piece until there was nothing left to return to. 

To love, and to be destroyed.

Or to step out of the illusion and...be free? 

He killed. 

Harry Potter killed a man.

His lover. 

Tom couldn't expect it, he returned home thinking Harry would open his arms for him again. Surely he wouldn't knock Tom's head with a bat and later wrap his hand around Tom's neck, and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. 

Until

the

last

beat.

Harry stared at his bare hands for a long time.

They were steady now. No tremble, no sign of what they had just done. The faintest sheen of sweat clung to his palms, but they were clean. Too clean. As if his body had already erased the proof, as if the act had been swallowed whole, leaving nothing but absence in its place.

Across the room, Tom sat slumped against the floor, his head tilted at an unnatural angle, lips slightly parted as if caught mid-sentence. His collared polo, the one with the delicate anchor patterns stitched along the button crease, was neatly pressed—as if he had dressed this morning expecting to be seen, to be admired. His hair, always so precise, was still perfectly combed, not a strand out of place. His black trousers, crisp and ironed, were tucked effortlessly into expensive oxfords, polished to a mirror sheen.

Everything about him was meticulous. Composed.

Except for the dark, blooming across his pale throat like an ink stain, a grotesque collar painted by Harry’s own hands.

He should have called the cops. He should have run. He should have reported the whole thing, dragged the weight of the truth into the light, let the world judge what had been done here.

Instead—

Instead, he stood there, staring at the body on the floor.

His hands.

His doing.

Harry carried Tom's larger body to the bed, his heart so numb.

He placed his hand on Tom's chest to feel no movement. 

He's not sure what's more shocking, that Tom is dead or that Harry is the one who did it. 

Monsters aren't invincible. 

And I must be your fated end.

.

.

.

He killed. 

The thought is mad—wild, unfettered, slipping through the cracks of reason like candle wax pooling in the dark. A whisper of lunacy, curling soft and breathless in the shadows of his mind.

It’s not regret that consumes. But a tentacle wave of desire so suddenly. 

Here Harry is—wrapping his body with the long luscious legs of a man, a lover he destroyed. A soul who lingers, still, in the marrow of his bones, in the sinew of his longing. Harry’s lips tremble as he embraces this body. His face is pressed to the crook of Tom’s throat, the skin cooling beneath his lips, chasing the last vestiges of warmth dwindling like embers on dying wood. His lips tasting, licking liberally now that Tom will never wake. For some reason the heat in his groin only builds. Yes, Tom’s always been attractive, a jewel. Harry has never been ashamed to admit it. How he taught Harry to look at him as if he was the sun and now all Harry wants is to swallow him whole. 

He does not dare meet his gaze, does not bear the weight of those brown eyes that no longer hold light—only scatters his worship in kisses, tracing the sharp curve of cheekbones, the hollow of his lovely ears, the crown of those dark, unruly curls.

On top of him like this, his hands shaping reverence into every touch, Harry marvels. Is this not a god? Tom Riddle, deity of ruin, deserving of his throne, deserving of love poured like fine wine upon an altar. The urge to only lay his emotions and passions for a dead man only builds stronger. 

His heart beats for him. The magic in him hums only to his tune.

And Harry was his Chosen One. 

So why, if you loved me, did you hurt me?

No prep, his cock is deep in Tom, that moisture, it’s not natural, the rigidity and tightness it is different, very different. But his cock only swells and his thrusts only grow more erratic. He pulls onto the dead flesh and bites, oh he bites everywhere and pulls. 

Flesh tasting of chocolate and decay and cooling blood. 

He pulled Tom's legs upwards, to rest atop Harry's around his waist, and he holds Tom down as if he could move, but he can't. He just presses Tom's neck down and crushes into him.

"I loved you." 

Safe, he feels safe, and it's arousing. 

Is it sick, that at some parts Harry is relieved he isn’t moving? And in the other parts he is sobbing that there will never be warmth again. 

I can only love you when you're dead. 

These hands—these treacherous, tender hands—that once held his face, that once traced the curve of his jaw and swore to gift him the world. I believed you. I placed my heart upon that white platter waiting for you to take me and remold me into something gold. I stripped and laid bare, you told me, don’t fight it, this is how it’s supposed to be, let you carve your name into my ribs. Let you hold the harness around my neck. 

.

.

.

I waited. I tried. Kneeled beside our bed to reciprocate how you taught me. 

And what did you do? You chipped away my soul, stole the shape of my name, and unravelled me thread by thread until there was nothing left to call my own.

I would have remained suffering if only you had made me suffer alone. 

What am I now? A kitten, a monster, a creature of hunger and grief. A thing that lunges, that bites, that devours—because the blackness you fed overflowed, the hollowness in me, replaced with volcanic anger.

You. 
Wanted Me.
This way.

So I take what I can. I press my face against your cold, still cheeks, nuzzle into you as though I could warm you back to life. Love you like this. Hold you like this. 

It is better this way. Better for everyone.

No one will understand but me. When they ask, I will tell them, of course, you manipulated me, you groomed me, you tricked me. 

Only I know I loved you. 

Love you still. 

And I can only love you dead.