Prompt: "Harry always gets himself dirty and messy, and OCD!Tom is having none of it?" – ren-yorugata (tumblr)
NOTE: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is not some cute kink or phrase for someone who likes things orderly. It is a mental illness. I have written it as such. I did do several hours of research and watched a few documentaries to try to be as accurate as possible while not allowing it to completely consume Tom's personality, but it does somewhat.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick tick tick tick. Harry groaned as he heard the seconds tick by. Riddle Manor was completely empty, besides Tom who was up in his office calculating fundraiser projections for the year. The house-elves were scuttling about in the kitchen and cleaning the house. The silence that filled the air was absolute; he swore he could hear himself blink. He jumped up from his seat only to begin walking around. He had already explored the mansion several times. He couldn't fathom there was anything he hadn't seen. His feet carried him up the stairs to Tom's study. Pushing the thick wooden door open quietly, he peered around it to see Tom elegantly writing on a piece of parchment.
He's probably busy, Harry thought knowingly. He knew he shouldn't be interrupting. He was, after all, the one that encourage his dark lover down the path of politics – which is equally dark, but contains a few less murders in the process.
"What is it, Harry?" Tom asked tersely, stress and frustration thick in his voice. Harry's eyes narrowed.
"No need to be sharp," Harry scoffed. Then he sighed and gave Tom an innocent look. "I'm bored."
"Hmm. That's nice," Tom murmured distractedly, dipping his quill into his ink.
Harry wandered passed his desk and looked at the titles of Tom's various books. Always the scholar, Harry thought fondly. When he turned around to Tom again, an idea popped into his head. He walked over to his lover and began massaging his shoulders casually as if he did it every day. As much as Tom would love to say Harry did, Harry didn't treat his royal highness half as regally as the man thought he deserved. Lightly Harry kissed Tom's neck.
"Harry," Tom said in that warning voice he used when he was losing his patience.
"Hmm… You look stressed," Harry informed him as gentle lips brushed over Tom's jaw.
"I'm working," Tom sighed. "Please, Harry."
"Oh fine!" Harry pouted, giving up on his advances. He saw the torn look in Tom's usually emotionless eyes. He knew Tom would entertain him if he could, but ever ambitious Tom had as much devotion to his work as he did Harry. "Later then," Harry gave him a suggestive grin and a wink before walking out. The frown returned the moment the door clicked shut. Well there went sexy time. I swear, Tom is his own worst cockblocker.
Harry continued wondering the house in search of something to do. Before he knew it, a yawn was slipping passed his lips. Growing tired of the monotony of the mansion, he ventured outside into the well-kept garden. Green eyes took a moment to adjust to the bright sun; the smell of grass and dirt soothed his nose in return. A fond smile graced his lips. He never thought he'd say it, but he missed working outside – even if it was pulling weeds for Aunt Petunia. The house-elves kept every shrub and flower and tree expertly groomed here. He was sure Tom assigned one to the sheer job of overlooking all the work done on the garden – Marigold is her name, if Harry remembered correctly.
Unsurprisingly, she popped in front of him the moment he stepped outside. She, like all of Tom's elves, was quite young by house-elf standards. She had whispy white hairs on the top of her head. She wasn't nearly as gray or wrinkled as Dobby or Kreacher, but enough so that she was obviously a house-elf. She wore the same uniform required of all the house-elves. It was similar to a black toga made out of Tom's old robes. He instructed them, as he acquired each elf, to make their selves look decent. So they did. If Harry recalled right, Marigold was wedding present from Abraxas Malfoy.
Harry snorted at the thought. He had once been told that house-elves came with old manors. They used to centuries ago. Now people bred and raised house-elves. For the right price, anyone could own one or several. Harry didn't particularly agree with the practice, but he thought it made much more sense than the previous explanation.
"Good afternoon, Master. What can Marigold do for Master?" She asked with a twinkle in her wide eyes. She was smiling graciously. Harry tried not to frown at the idea that she had probably been afraid Tom had come to the garden to yell at her over something. She would only take the expression the wrong way.
"Nothing," Harry trailed off before considering it. "Marigold, can I help you in the garden?" He asked, hoping she wouldn't misunderstand him. Her eyes got wide and she began trembling. Dammit.
"Marigold has been bad! Bad Marigold," She began hitting herself. Harry kneeled down and grabbed her hands. She stopped struggling the moment she realized she almost hit her master. "Master, Marigold must be punishing herself, sir!"
"You are not to harm yourself and that is an order," Harry said firmly. She blinked owlishly at him and stared. She looked so deeply confused it broke his heart. "Marigold, you are doing an excellent job." Like someone flipped a switch, she began shaking with excitement.
"Master is too kind to Marigold. Thank you, Master. Marigold is happy to be a good house-elf!" She squeaked. He smiled a bit fondly; it was still strange how one compliment could make them so excited.
"I'm sure you are. However, I'm bored. I thought I could get in the garden and preoccupy myself," he explained.
"'Tis Master's garden. Master must not ask Marigold. Marigold serves Master." She reminded him a bit cheekily. Harry grinned; he much preferred Marigold's sassiness (well, sassy for a house-elf addressing her master) to Dobby's worship or Kreacher's bad attitude.
"Well, forgive me," he joked. He saw her eyes widen, having taken it literally. "Just kidding, Mary," he assured her. "Now how can I help?"
Marigold stared, unsure of herself. He waited patiently. He was determined to teach these house-elves not to be mindless drones dragging each other down to gain favor. She began wringing her small hands and looked down at her feet. Nervously, she tugged on one of her bat-like ears. "Marigold is been meaning to pull weeds by the pavilion. She was to tell Sebastian before Master arrived."
"Sounds like fun, I'll do it!" Harry volunteered. Marigold nodded cautiously, staring at him hesitantly. "Anyway, I need Sebastian to pick herbs for tonight's dinner," he suggested so that she would feel less awkward. "Could you tell him for me?"
"Yes Master! Marigold will tell Sebastian right away!" She nodded vigorously and disapparated. He smiled before walking down the line of shrubs to the path that would lead to the pavilion. The garden was near maze-like. It had tall shrubs with ornate flowers lining all sides and creating paths to different parts of the garden. Ones on the furthest right and left led to the herbs and fruits and vegetables they used in cooking. Closer inward were magical plants grown for use in potions. In the center there were just flowers surrounding a tall, white circular pavilion. Each path was lined with white, sand-blasted stone and overhead fairies often flew about (and would light up the garden when it was dark). There were several fairy homes in the garden itself, inviting them to cohabitate. Not only were they lights, but they helped the garden grow as colorfully and abundantly as it did.
Harry worked pulling weeds until the sun began to fall. His skin was slightly darker and his cheeks were stained red from sunburn. Sweat beaded down his face, arms, stomach, and chest (as he took off his shirt a few hours into working). As dirt came into contact with the moisture of his body, it clung to him. By the time he stepped inside, he was nearly covered in a layer of mud. He wiped his face on his shirt just as Tom turned the corner, looking for him. Tom froze in his tracks and stared at him in horror.
"What is this?" Tom asked. The beautiful man looked almost pained.
"Huh? Oh, I was working the garden," Harry grinned happily.
"That's what we have house-elves for," Tom practically hissed.
"Are you angry?" Harry questioned, looking torn between amusement and annoyance. Tom ran a hand through his hair and stepped back as Harry stepped forward.
"Do not touch me! Just go wash yourself," Tom ordered. Harry smirked and stepped forward with his muddy arms out wide.
"You mean you don't want a hug?" Harry asked innocently.
"Harry," Tom spoke warningly, his voice raising an octave. Harry stepped forward tauntingly and Tom took several steps back. "Stop it!" Tom yelled, his voice cracking. Harry took a step back and looked in Tom's eyes. Harry was surprised to see actual fear there. Tom's breathing was shaky and tears were buddying in his eyes. Harry hand his hands up in surrender.
"Tom?" Harry asked.
"Just, go get washed up," Tom said again. Harry made sure to stay as far away from Tom as he could while he passed him. Tom's eyes didn't leave Harry; almost like he was afraid Harry would try to touch him. As Harry rounded the corner, he heard Tom call for a house-elf to clean up the mud he tracked in.
As Harry showered, he thought about Tom's strange reaction. It was just a bit of mud. Surely that wasn't what was bothering Tom? There was legitimate fear in his eyes – not the annoyance Harry had first presumed. (Had he realized how frightened Tom was, he never would have taunted him!) Harry swore Tom didn't fear anything short of death. Even at the mention of death, Tom would just clam up and not bring it up. No, this had Tom trembling and crying. That was what worried Harry. What has gotten into him?
Tom was sitting at the table waiting for Harry to join him for dinner once he was washed and dried. Dark eyes avoiding Harry like the plague. Harry caught something though – Tom Marvolo Riddle looked ashamed. The politician cleared his throat and looked at Harry warily.
"I… apologize for my behavior earlier," Tom said awkwardly, hardly meeting Harry's curious eyes.
"Tom, are you alright? I mean, it was just a bit of dirt," Harry raised an eyebrow.
"I'm fine," Tom muttered, stabbing at his steak. "I just don't like dirt or mud or filth."
"I can get not liking it, but, Tom, you were crying."
"I'm not mad! Just leave it alone!" Tom yelled harshly. His fist was clenched tightly, and he dropped his silver wear to wrap his arms around himself.
"I never said you were. Why does dirt scare you?"
"Because dirt has germs and germs kill people, Harry! I don't want to die because you decided to go work like a house-elf!"
"Dirt isn't going to kill you," Harry said slowly. Tom never reacted this violently. Where was his infamous composure?
"You don't think I know that? I know it's overreacting. I know it shouldn't bother me – but it does! You wouldn't understand," Tom frowned, staring down at the table. Silence hung in the air for several minutes. Harry studied Tom carefully this time. He stopped seeing and began observing. Tom's hands were red like he had scrubbed them numerous times recently. His cheeks matched. His clothing didn't have so much as a speck of dust on it – actually, he noticed Tom had changed clothing since their encounter in the hall.
"Tom, do you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?" Harry questioned. Tom looked up at him in confusion. A light-bulb went off in Harry's mind. They were in 1947. OCD might not have been discovered yet. He wasn't sure the exact year. He wasn't even sure how you helped someone with OCD. "There is nothing wrong with you."
"Of course there is! I shouldn't be afraid of dirt," Tom scowled.
"Then we can work through it together," Harry promised, taking Tom's clenched fist in his hand. "A little bit at a time."
Tom gazed at Harry skeptically. Harry didn't relent. He made vows and planned on helping Tom any way he could. Tom swallowed air and nodded. Harry smiled reassuringly.
They would get through it together.