Archive of Our Own ^beta

L'agente speciale è la mia musa ispiratrice

Harry detested being observed. This was not the scrutiny of art critics dissecting his brushwork. It was not the possessive gaze of wealthy collectors adding his pieces to their private vaults. It certainly was not the flash of cameras at crowded gallery openings, a necessary evil he could tolerate. His deep aversion was reserved for one person: him.

Tom Riddle’s presence alone was a very persistent silhouette, almost an inescapable stain on Harry’s peace when he works. Riddle was always just out of sight, yet eerily close. Harry could feel the oppressive weight of his stare, a tangible sensation pressing between his shoulder blades, as if a second, unwelcome spine had fused with his own. Security was meant to bring peace of mind. That was the entire reason for hiring a specialized agent. This protection was intended to shield Harry from the relentless stalkers who lurked in shadows. It was to ward off the desperate fans who believed acquiring a memento, be it a stray paintbrush or a tiny shirt button, would somehow imbue them with a fraction of his artistic essence.

Special agent Riddle’s attention, however, was most definitely different from Harry's, his was far more unnerving caliber. It felt personal, invasive. It was a constant reminder of vulnerabilities Harry fought daily to conceal. As the public demanded some access, Riddle seemed to want unfettered access to Harry himself, not his art.

The very constant surveillance gnawed at his nerves. Harry craved anonymity, solitude, a quiet space to create without the hum of te eyes of Riddle upon him. His profession demanded visibility, a paradox that fueled his growing unease. He felt exposed around the special agent, almost as if he was a specimen under a microscope. This was not the type of admiration he sought from Tom. This was something far more unsettling, a psychological intrusion that chipped away at his resolve. The protection he paid for was meant to keep the outside world at bay. Riddle, the paid protector, had become the very source of his distress.

But Tom didn’t make him feel safe. Tom made him feel cornered.

Every time Harry turned his head, there he was. At the doorway, by the car, silent in the corner of the studio like a shadow that refused to dissolve. Suited, sharp, unreadable.

Harry had begged for privacy, had snarled, “I just want to breathe,” once or twice. Tom only raised a brow, as though breathing were a luxury Harry couldn’t afford without him.

Which was why Harry’s only refuge had become the bathroom. Not because he needed it, but because it was the one place Tom would never follow.

At least—not until now.

Harry had locked the door, sat cross-legged on the cool tile with a sketchpad balanced on his knees, graphite smudging his fingers. His sketches were quick, impulsive, half-wild strokes—always the same subject. Tom’s profile. Tom’s hands. Tom’s mouth drawn a dozen times, never quite right, never enough.

Harry was so lost in shading the curve of Tom’s jaw that he didn’t hear the click of the lock undone.

The door opened.

And Tom was standing there.

For once, Harry couldn’t speak. His throat closed on the half-formed curse, the panicked explanation. Tom’s gaze dropped to the sketchpad, lingered on the page, then flicked up to Harry.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The sound was final.

“Interesting,” Tom murmured, voice velvet-dark. He plucked the sketchbook from Harry’s hands with infuriating ease. The agent flipped through the pages slowly, his expression unreadable. Harry lunged for it, heat crawling up his neck.

“Tom, Give that back—”

Tom’s free hand slammed against the wall beside Harry’s head, pinning him in place with nothing but presence. His body caged Harry in, close enough that Harry caught the faintest trace of cologne and gunmetal.

“Tell me, Potter,” Tom said softly, almost like a taunt. His eyes gleamed as he held the sketchbook just out of reach. “Do you think of me this much? Even when you’re alone?”

Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears. His hands shook, not from fear, but something far worse.

“I—I sketch everything,” Harry lied, voice breaking as Tom leaned closer.

“Liar. And liars are not supposed to be let off easily, dear.”

Tom’s mouth was inches from his. The air between them crackled, thin as paper about to tear. Harry should push him away, should do something, anything—

But then Tom kissed him.

Hard, bruising, hungry.

Harry’s sketchpad slipped from his grasp, pages scattering across the tiles, every portrait of Tom laid bare.

And just when Harry thought he’d drown in it, Tom pulled back, lips brushing his ear.

“Careful now, Little Picasso,” Tom whispered, voice low enough to burn. “You’re playing with fire.”