Philophobia
by TanninTele
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.
The images used in the above aesthetic belong to their individual owners.
A/N: It's been a hell of a long time since I last posted anything and I'm highly aware that my writing style is a lot sloppier than in the past. I'll post this as a bit of a test-run and hopefully ya'll can help me polish my writing for a future project I'm working on.
I'm well aware that the trope of protective Tom, meek Harry has been overused, but I'm a sucker for it all the same. I've originally intended this as a one-shot but if the ratings are adequate, I have a few other chapters in mind. If you like this, don't forget to comment, critique or favorite!
Late July
It was night-time at Privet Drive on the last day of July, and Harry Potter was busy collecting his things, a nervous tension thrumming through his lithe form as he waited for midnight to strike. “Could you hurry up?” Petunia snapped, looking down her nose at the short teenager bustling about the front entrance.
At her words, Harry irritably banged open the door to the cupboard-under-the-stairs, letting it slam against the wall. He had nothing more than his trunk and the clothes on his back, having already sent Hedwig off to Tom’s apartment above Borgin and Burkes.
Wiry muscles clenching, Harry tugged out his red and gold school trunk. The small cot beneath it creaked shrilly, the bed springs releasing under the weight. With a heaving breath, Harry let the trunk drop to the floor. A small quilt blanket dangled from the closed lid, it’s fabric tilled and stained with various fluids. Harry carefully pulled it out, noticing the embroidered initials H.J.P. on the frayed corner.
Soon to be H.J.P.R, he thought nervously, looking down at the promise ring binding his smallest finger.
On the day of their graduation, Tom had subtly slipped the gold band onto Harry’s finger, turning his face away in order to hide his small blush.
Harry had stared at it, blinking dumbly for a long moment, before throwing his arms around Tom’s shoulders and embracing him tightly. The ring was an unsightly thing, it’s golden band faded from age and it’s purple center-stone scratched with an odd symbol (supposedly the Gaunt family insignia, though Harry didn’t ask how Tom had gotten his cantankerous Uncle Morfin to hand it over). Despite it’s misshapen form, Harry knew the sentimentality behind it and was touched all the same.
By giving Harry the family heirloom, Tom was inviting Harry to join his family; to join him beyond the walls of Hogwarts castle.
Puffing out a small breath as Petunia barked at him to stop lollygagging, Harry rolled his trunk to the front door and sat upon it, watching out the window for any sign of his lover. He fiddled with his wand, noticing how Petunia’s anger-flushed expression tightened.
“Your - your little freak friend isn't going to be here long, is he?” the woman asked. “You’re lucky Vernon’s staying the night at Marge's with Dudders, he’d have a seizure seeing any of your folk lingering in the yard. What would the neighbors think? ”
“Maybe that you’ve finally learned good taste in company?” he murmured. The woman’s face screwed up. “I won’t stay long,” Harry finally assured her. “We’ve just got to wait for the wards to fall, and then I’m - " home free.
A resounding crack was heard, directly outside the front door.
Harry glanced down at his watch, pleasantly surprised to see that midnight had struck as he was speaking. He didn’t feel much different - maybe a bit nauseous, but that might just be in anticipation of Side-Along apparation. He’d nearly failed the apparation test, having accidentally Splinched off his big toe. Tom was adamant that Harry never apparate by himself.
Harry jerked up, seeing Tom’s immaculate dark coif through the front window. The older man was impatiently tapping his foot, waiting for the door to swing open. When it did, Tom could barely get a word in before he was tackled by a small body. “Tom,” Harry breathed, pressing his face into the man’s lean and pale neck.
Tom patted his back awkwardly, eyes fluttering shut as he took in the sweet treacle-tart scent that Harry somehow always exuded. “Happy birthday, love,” he said, smiling gently at the now-seventeen year-old.
“Queers,” Petunia muttered derisively. Harry tensed with hurt. “So you’re - Tom, was it? My nephew’s dear friend from that ridiculous school?”
Tom tucked Harry into his side, giving a falsely polite smile. "Fiancé ,” he corrected with a bit of smug satisfaction. “Didn’t he tell you? We’re engaged. Well, nearly.”
Petunia’s rheumy gaze shot to the flushing face of her nephew. “Is that why you wanted Lily’s wedding ring?” her nostrils flared slightly.
Harry bit his lip, glancing up shyly at his boyfriend. “I wanted to give you an heirloom too,” he murmured, reaching into his jacket pocket and palming over a silver ring. It had a slight floral pattern, the band embedded with a bright emerald stone. Tom’s posture and expression immediately softened.
“Harry -”
Across the street at Number Seven, the outdoor light flickered on, the house’s occupants stirring. Petunia’s eyes flashed and she shoved Harry roughly out onto the street. “You’ve had your histrionics,” she hissed. “Now leave before anyone sees you freaks -”
This was not the right thing to say.
Tom sneered, letting his wand slip into his palm from his wrist holster. He leveled the bone-white rod at Petunia’s flat bosom, smirking at her startled gasp.
“You know,” he said in a deathly cold voice. “From my point of view, the only freak here is you. What would your neighbors think if they knew all your dirty little secrets? Ten years, you kept Harry trapped beneath the stairs like some sort of dog - no place for a little boy! You forced him to clean after you and your filthy husband, picking up your disgusting junk-food wrappings and denying him even the slightest bit of reprieve. You starved him, ignored him, and beat him whenever he showed the slightest sign of accidental magic. Accidental magic, which you damn well know is something any normal wizarding child would have. You had your son ostracize him at school, not allowing Harry a singlefriend until he turned eleven, teaching Harry that being better than your precious 'Dudders' was a damnable sin!
"And yet, despite all the malicious things you’ve committed upon him, Harry somehow turned out to be the most warm-hearted, open-minded, loving and caring human soul that you’ll ever meet. Naive and far too forgiving at times, but you should be grateful, as those traits are the only things keeping you alive. He has more kindness in his little finger than you have in your entire body, and it’s only because I’ve promised not to cause any lasting damage that you aren’t writhing beneath my wand, on your knees like the filthy, petty and revolting Muggle you are,” Tom spat.
Face and chest warm, Harry tugged at Tom’s sleeve, trying to fight a grin. Like he’d always thought, Tom hardly needed a wand to intimidate anyone. His words were a weapon all on their own. Petunia quivered in her silky night-gown, her mouth working furiously. Not a word slipped past her lips. Harry was impressed at Tom’s wordless spell casting; Merlin knew Petunia’s wails were loud enough to wake the neighborhood all on her own.
“I think you’ve got the point across, Tom,” Harry said softly.
Blue eyes still blazing, Tom let out a resistant sound. As a warm hand settled soothingly on his upper arm, Tom allowed his wand to fall, aiming instead at Harry’s trunk. It began to bob along behind them like an excited crup, knocking against Petunia's legs. “Have everything?” Tom said in a surprisingly collected tone.
Harry nodded, sparing his aunt one last glance. He wondered if she had anything left to say to him, but honestly, he no longer cared.
He had a new family now.
A slight shudder erupted around Privet Drive as the blood wards snapped. A faint red tint, like a sheen of blood, painted the sky before it disappeared in a shower of crystalline shards. Smiling in contentment, Tom tugged Harry to his chest, lightly kissing his marred forehead. With a whisper of a spell, they Disapparated from Privet Drive, leaving in their wake the last Evans sister and a memory-filled, cramped little cupboard, it’s door swinging shut one last time.
It felt as though he were being sucked down a giant drain. The two seemed to be spinning very fast and the roaring in their ears was absolutely deafening. Harry tried to keep his eyes open but the whirl of colors made him feel sick.
As they reached their destination, he shut his eyes tightly and fell not-so-gently onto cold stone. "Fuck," Tom murmured, crouching down to grasp Harry's shoulder. "I was aiming for upstairs. The floors are carpeted, you see," he said apologetically.
Dizzy and bruised, Harry gingerly went to his feet, wincing at the soreness of his body. "Not your fault. Is this your shop, then?" Harry breathed in, smelling something decidedly unpleasant. Harry tripped on the hem of his over-sized pant legs and into a large, dimly lit wizard's shop. His eyes widened at the sight of a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards and a staring glass eye. Sneering masks watched him from their place on a shelf. A shudder went down his back.
"Oh, uh, wow," the young looked up to see rusty, spiked instruments hanging precariously from the ceiling. Harry found that he quite enjoyed the shop's variety, despite some of it's more nefarious and gory merchandises. A thick coat made of Nemean Lion skin - said to be impervious to most jinxes and curses - was draped over the shoulders of a skeleton mannequin. On the counter a crystal eyeglass, a verdant green pendant and an interesting set of scarab-shaped stones were displayed inside a glass case.
Tom snickered. "Not the most welcoming place, is it?"
"Is that you, Riddle?" A gruff voice barked from the back room. Borgin was found in a small office, sharpening an iron long-sword with a whetstone. The shopkeep was a stooping man with grey, oily hair and a wart on his chin that seemed quite worrying. "A bit late to be coming in," he said with a frown.
"I had to pick Harry up from his previous . . . residence," Tom said smoothly, floating Harry's trunk behind them.
"Oh, so finally introducing me to your little lover?" Borgin leered. "Quite the pretty thing, isn't he?"
Tom's eyes flashed. "Quite," he said through clenched teeth. "If you'll allow us to pass?"
With a mocking bow, Borgin dismissed them. Tom insistently pulled Harry toward a small staircase, it's banister caked with dust.
Tom was clearly uncomfortable showing Harry his living space, shoulders tense as he unlocked the door and floated in Harry's trunk. The room was dim, with the windows closed to keep out any moonlight. Harry tried to peek through blinds, sneezing as the shifting curtains picked up dust. He turned back as Tom cast a quick spell, orange flames erupting in the fireplace.
Harry looked around the now-lit room with the barely concealed excitement of an overgrown child; compared to Harry's accommodations at Privet Drive, Tom's apartment was a haven.
The floor was indeed carpeted, though it seemed stained with something oily. There was a dining table pushed against the wall, a cool tea-cup abandoned atop the recent Daily Prophet. The living area was overrun with books, their moving pictures (or lack thereof) indicating them as a mix of Muggle and magical.
Harry could see bits of Tom's own personality in the dark blue quilt draped over the leather chesterfield and the framed photos on the mantel. Worn chairs were arranged in a circle around the fireplace, handmade doilies daintily settled over the armrests; Harry didn't comment on their presence, simply smiling at the slight blush Tom wore.
"Hepzibah made them for me," he said, bashful.
A bit later, Harry wandered into the kitchen. Tom murmured half-hearted apologies about the state of things. The fixings and pipes in the kitchen were old and rusted, the air smelling of burnt bread while the counter was splattered with stains. The stove and oven were in awful condition, indicating to Harry that his boyfriend didn't cook much.
The fridge was scarce of food and Tom swore softly beneath his breath. Assuring Harry they would go shopping later, he led Harry down the narrow hall into the single bedroom.
Slightly larger than his room at the Dursley's, the walls were painted a soft green, the floors covered with a faded brown carpet. A chipped armoire stood beside the window and inside, a few jumpers and polished shoes were lined and folded to perfection. Harry smiled fondly at this. Old school textbooks in cardboard boxes were stacked by the wall, and with a swish of Tom's wand, the mess was cleared out. The tomes flew into a small bookshelf nailed above the desk, although Tom left space for Harry's own belongings.
The bed was pushed in a corner as if sleep isn't particularly important to it's inhabitant. Beside the bed and atop a rickety wooden table was a wind-up clock, it's black hands showing the late hour.
As Tom placed Harry's trunk at the foot of the bed, the ceiling light flickered for a moment. Harry looked up to see a large splotch of faded orange. A potions explosion? Harry wondered, lips twitching upwards.
"Experimenting?" he correctly surmised, brushing his fingers against a large cauldron sitting innocuously on the desk.
"Of course," Tom scoffed. "I can't work in this old shop forever. I've been thinking of returning to Hogwarts to apprentice under Professor Slughorn. Despite his obsequious nature, he was made a Potion's Master for a reason."
Harry blinked, pink lips slipping open slightly. "Professor Slughorn? Really? I thought you weren't as big a fan of him as he is of you."
Tom shrugged uncomfortably. "He's irksome to be sure - I'd be ten times the teacher he is, far more disciplined - but I can respect him for his knowledge. And I have perfect grades in Potions. He'd be a fool to turn me down."
"A fool, indeed," Harry agreed softly.
"I'll find us some new blankets, these are absolutely disgusting," Tom said, gathering up his bed quilt and exiting the room with swoop of dark clothing.
Harry bit his lip, uneasiness filling his chest. If Tom got the job at Hogwarts, what would happen to Harry? To their relationship? Harry was planning on joining the Aurors, a full-time job to be certain. If Tom spent all his days at Hogwarts, they would never see each other. And once Tom quit Borgin and Burkes - where would Harry stay?
Trying to distract himself. Harry opened the window and set up Hedwig's perch. She must be out hunting. Knockturn Alley was crawling with rats the size of felines.
Within moments, Tom came back in, a handful of dark blue sheets in his arms. "Here," he said abruptly, dropping them onto the mattress. Twitching his wand, the bed was made up and Harry smiled at his boyfriend thankfully.
Tom seemed a bit taken aback at the other man's gratitude, but quickly remembered that Harry'd slept in a Cupboard for ten years. Tom paused for a moment, debating to himself.
"I know this isn't much," the man started, sounding uncharacteristically unsure. "Having to fend for myself for so many years, I've never required many things and . . . and I know the apartment is not well maintained, but - "
Harry smiled at his lover and moved forward to wrap the man in a sudden embrace. It didn't matter what would happen to them later; he was just grateful for now.
"It's perfect," he said softly. "And so are you. I . . . I love you, Tom."
Tom was a bit startled by the admission, but after a moment, he tentatively squeezed Harry's slim shoulders back. "I know," he murmured, for a lack of response. "I know."