Don't Fuck With Florists(They'll Fuck You Up!)

Untitled Part 1

Don't Fuck With Florists (They'll Fuck You Up)Summary:

Unsatisfied with his post-war life, Harry decides to get to the root of all of his problems when that root was still working at Borgin and Burkes shop in the late 40s. He's the Master of Death, damn it, he can do what he wants for once in his life.

Tom Riddle isn't particularly happy about working at a small, dingy shop for magical artifacts, no matter how interesting those artifacts are. He's even less happy when an insufferable stranger sets up the most obnoxious flower shop right across the street.

What follows would be a romantic comedy, if it weren't for politics.

Notes:

This fic is my contribution to the Tomarry Big Bang 2016. The artwork is by , and more art by her will be posted !

Work Text:

There was someone digging through his trash.

To be more specific: there was a man in front of Harry's house. He was holding a camera in one hand while quietly trying to dig through the rubbish bin in front of the house with the other. Harry couldn't for the life of him remember the man's name, but recognized him from one of the numerous press conferences he had been forced to attend. And he had been forced to attend quite a few ever since Voldemort's downfall and the end of the war.

Harry... didn't like it.

He didn't like the press conferences, the attention or the journalists hounding him. He downright hated the articles posted about him going out to buy groceries, the speculations about his relationship status or how much money he had or even the silly articles about people somehow reading his current life situation from the state of his hair – which was ridiculous! He washed his hair almost every day, why would he need to brush it that often too?

Harry had wards preventing people from entering his house unless specifically invited, but apparently being a sought-after celebrity wasn't enough reason to warrant a Fidelius Charm to prevent people from finding him in the first place. According to some it was getting special privileges, or something.

Which, well. Thanks, Hermione.

The man digging through the trash suddenly froze, and looked up from what he was doing. He glanced towards the front door to confirm that it was still closed, and tried to see if there was anyone watching him from inside. Harry's windows, charmed to allow people to look out but not in, appeared dark and empty. It was a bit... scary, really.

So focused the man was on the seemingly empty windows that he didn't notice the slight movement behind him. From the darkness there, a tall skeletal figure emerged. The thing, not affected by mortal magic, cast an accusatory look to where it could see Harry standing.

Harry gave a tight-lipped smile and gestured for the thing to continue its task. It did. Unhappily.

The journalist took a step back from the trash, unable to shrug off the feeling of being watched. He could've sworn that the night hadn't been thisdark mere moments ago, and Merlin – how uninteresting was Potter's trash? There was nothing worth writing about!

Shaking his head in disappointment, the journalist turned, only to come face to face with something he had never seen in his life. Something terrifying. It wasn't a Dementor, but blessed Circe did it look like one!

"No," the man whimpered, taking a step back and nearly dropping his camera.

"Hey," the thing said, its voice deep and gravelly. It got no further than that, however, before, in a bout of courage, the journalist gathered his wits, ducked to the side and ran. His camera, by some miracle, was still held tightly in his hands.