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Chapter Text

Tom Riddle, esteemed trauma surgeon and three-time Gellert Grindelwald Award Winner for his efforts in playing a key part in developing case studies on emergency thoracotomies and exploratory laparotomies, stands by the coffee machine in near pitch darkness. 

The run-down appliance gurgles slowly — arguably too slowly for the ruthless eighteen-hour shift, his considerable salary, enough to roll up to St. Mungo’s General in navy designer scrubs, is stringing him along by. Tom impatiently lingers in the break room, unmoving save for the occasional twitch of a gloved finger against the metal countertop. 

If there is anything Dr. Tom (PhD earned) Riddle hates more in the world than a vascular surgery gone wrong, it is new rotations. New rotations promise too-giddy interns drunk on optimism and caffeine, misplaced chest tubes that are tangled up in trauma carts, and the worst of the worst. 

Personalities. 

Hospitals are supposed to be professional environments. When Tom had been an intern, himself, he’d been disgusted at the blatant hormones of his fellow peers. Possibly, his distaste had been affected by how he’d walked in on a half-dressed Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape — his bosses and now colleagues — but yet, Tom chose not to recall that particular moment unless he needed to whip out the wild card as leverage to earn him a free spot in surgeries. 

The lounge door creaks open and snaps Tom out of his thoughts, the sound of a pair of unnecessarily cheerful trainers squeaking across the tiled floor. It is four in the morning, god. He’s supposed to have nearly two and a half more hours before he’s meant to greet any interns. 

“Morning!” comes a chipper voice. 

Tom doesn’t bother to respond. He glares at the coffee machine harder, willing it to drip his dark roast into his mug quicker. The moment this infernal machine finishes, he can barricade himself in his office and reply to insignificant emails for the next hour.

“Er, uh, I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”

Tom inwardly exhales in relief as the coffee machine powers off, snatching his mug from under the dripper and stomping towards the door, prepared to swipe his card out of the lounge room and sneak into his office, just as a cheery face filters into view. 

“Harry Potter,” the newcomer repeats stupidly, as if Tom requested a handshake, or goddamn sunrise. 

Tom lifts a brow. “Do you stutter when you talk to patients, as well?”

“No! Er, sorry. I…It’s my first day. I’m in pediatrics rotation, but this is my first real time in the ER. I’d thought I beat the crowd, and, um, here I am?”

Fuck. It’s a new rotation. 

The new rotations Tom’s meant to make a good impression on in two and a half hours.  

Tom slowly turns to face him.

Potter is smiling.

Potter is still smiling.

There are light purple bags beneath his eyes, as if he’s stayed up one too many hours in restlessness before his first day on the job, a stain just above his scrub blouse pocket that Tom suspects is applesauce, and he looks like the type of doctor who would boop every teddy bear a child brings into the ward on the nose. Tom also notes, horrifyingly, that despite the anxious fidgeting, the man looks well-rested. 

Tom’s eye twitches. “You’re early. You do realize your rotation doesn’t start until six-thirty? Who’s even mentoring you?” His gaze flicks down to the crumpled-up sheet of notebook paper in Potter’s pants pocket, and he rips it out, ignoring the yelped protest from the messy-haired boy. 

In perfectly typed-out writing, it reads Dr. Tom Riddle. Head Trauma Surgeon. 

Tom scowls. 

“Oh!” Potter perks up, peering over Tom’s shoulder. “Do you know him? I’ve heard some quite frankly, scary things from the other interns.”

“What other interns are in this hospital at this god-forsaken hour?” Tom says in disbelief. “Did you all not read the emails sent out?”

“Just one other intern,” Potter grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck where a red blotch has begun to creep up to his cheeks. “Hermione Granger. She was nervous too.”

Tom ignores him. “What things have you heard about Dr. Riddle?”

Is his reputation already crumbling before his eyes? It can’t be…not so fast. Tom doesn’t appear to work without every single dark hair combed perfectly into place. He charms every single patient to the point where he has to explicitly state the hospital's romantic policy rules. All staff beloves him. Except for Dumbledore, but that’s a story for another day. 

Potter props his elbows along the back of the counter, eyeing Tom’s coffee curiously, where tendrils of soft smoke are steaming into the air. “For starters, he hasn’t smiled since 2012.”

For starters?

“That’s incorrect,” Tom replies coldly. “I distinctly remember him smirking in 2017 when the chief of neuro slipped on a discarded central line and broke her wrist. And grinning when the head of cardiology slipped on a blood spill in 2019.”

Harry chokes on his tea. “That’s horrible!”

“Dr. Riddle looked very pleased.”

A nurse clad in bright pink scrubs pokes her head into the lounge room, sees Tom, spots Potter, and immediately retreats with the speed of someone who has witnessed several workplace fatalities. Clever girl. Tom will have to get her out next before she tarnishes his image. He jots down a mental note and sips from his mug of coffee, dwelling on how discreetly he can get the nurse to crash into a code cart.

“He’ll get used to me,” Potter said unsurely, before he brightens with the misplaced confidence of youth. “I grow on people.”

Tom almost feels sorry for him, but he can’t help but add, “like mold?”

Tom can gauge the signs of Potter’s laugh, a genuine laugh, that once the coffee machine beeps in a signal that it’s done cooling off, Tom snatches up his keycard — which was lying facedown on the mini fridge — and trudges towards the door without another word. 

“You won’t even introduce yourself?” Potter calls after him.

“Discharged,” Tom mutters blandly, already halfway down the hall. 

His coffee tastes unusually sweet. 

Distantly, he wonders if the new intern knows his true identity and plans to out-sweet Tom, because of his blatant lying about his identity. Whatever. He’ll learn his lesson in T-minus two hours. 

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The fluorescent conference hall buzzes with chatter and half-empty coffee cups, the air smelling of nerves and burnt toast from the upstairs cafeteria. 

Harry taps his foot rapidly along the legs of his chair to slow his rapidly beating heart. He focuses on Hermione Granger’s clinically perfected ironed scrubs in comparison to his — stained with the cinnamon applesauce he had for breakfast, and a dot from a ball-ink pen permanently engraved on his left breast pocket — and sinks further into his seat. 

The boy next to him, with bright ginger hair and even brighter freckles, keeps throwing distressed glances towards the double doors and glaring at Hermione, who is now organizing her pens by ink viscosity. The boy sips from a cup that Harry is 99.9% sure contains some sort of strawberry tea. He tips it towards Harry, who politely declines with a wince and a wish to disappear into the plastic of his fold-up chair, and introduces himself as Ron Weasley. 

What if Dr. Riddle is terrifying? What is he’s bald? What if he wears a permanent frown on his face all the time, or stares directly through you when he speaks? What if Harry annoys him as much as he annoyed a very tall, sharp-jawed man by the coffee machine at four in the morning? 

At precisely six thirty-two, the door swings open with a wretched metallic screech. 

Ron grips Harry’s knee suddenly, who jolts in his seat with the force of his touch. With a sly glance to the side, and the ghostly gleam descending over Ron’s face, Harry lets it pass as the poor boy looks like he’s just caught sight of the gates of heaven. 

Chief Resident Poppy Pomfrey, flanked by Minerva McGonagall and a handful of senior attendings Harry should probably know the names of, all of them looking like they haven’t slept in at least a fiscal quarter. 

Brilliant. 

Slinking in at the back of the group, a clipboard pressed to his thigh and an unbearably smug amount absent in the lounge room no less than two hours prior, is Coffee Machine Man.

Harry’s stomach sinks.

“Good morning,” Chief Pomfrey says, clearing her throat. “Welcome to your first day of hell.”

Ron’s grip tightens tremendously on Harry’s knee, who digs his nails into the plastic armrests of the folding chair to prevent himself from yelping. The interns sitting in the row behind him exchange nervous laughs, as if this is all a fun game directed by St. Mungo’s General, because surely, this cannot be the real introductory speech, but Hermione Granger is proof of non-foul play. She sits up straighter in her seat, tapping the tip of one of her expensive pens against the bow of her mouth. 

“You have all been assigned a mentor for your first emergency rotation. Today is day zero, shadowing. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t guess unless it’s life or death, which…” She peered at the crowd through a pair of cheap-fake glasses, frowning. “It probably will be. And lastly, do not faint unless you enjoy being added to your own trauma bay.”

Harry chews at the inside of his cheek as his gaze strays to Coffee Machine Man, who sips his coffee and looks devastatingly bored. 

“In one moment, after official introductions are made, please go stand next to your assigned resident. You all should have received your assigned resident via email. If you haven't, please stand to the side. It is not a mistake that you are not placed with your chosen department. This is day zero. Not day one.” Chief Pomfrey starts at one side of the line, furthest from Coffee Machine Man, and begins reciting names. “Dr. Tonks, Pediatrics.”

Hermione shoots up from her seat with such force it nearly sends her chair barreling into Ron, who spills a bit of strawberry tea down the front of his scrubs — but thankfully it removes the death-grip on Harry’s knee. 

She sweeps to the front of the room, giving Harry a subtle thumbs-up as if to acknowledge their morning spent together, and steps to the left of a lavender-haired woman with a lopsided smile and at least three visible silver piercings. 

Harry is, admittedly, very jealous. 

“Dr. Lockhart, plastics. Dr. Snape, pharmacy. Dr. Sprout, cardio. Dr. Trelawney, neurology consult.”

Ron nearly trips on his shoelace on the way up, hastily discarding his strawberry tea in a nearby trash can, hurriedly moving to linger beside a tall woman in sleek navy scrubs and large, bubble-like glasses. He glances over his shoulder at Harry, lips set in a thin line, as if marching to the gallows. 

Harry covers his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Sybill Trelawney, a renowned neurologist and recipient of the Best Staff Member Award on three separate occasions, is also known to be quite…odd. Crystal pendants were known to dangle from her ceiling tiles in direct violation of multiple health and safety codes. Her prescription pad is kept in a velvet-lined box beneath a paperweight shaped like a third eye. 

However, Dr. Trelawney has a diagnostic accuracy rate that rivals that of the MRI department, according to rumor. The residents were never sure whether to fear her, respect her, or ask for their astrological charts to be read (from what Harry had gathered from Hermione that morning).

Further and further down, Chief Pomfrey gets on her glittering clipboard, and less and less, the interns are around Harry. There is only one resident who has not been introduced to the conference room, and Harry is the only remaining intern sitting in a folding chair. 

Which means…

Oh, no.

Harry might as well be headed to the gallows with Ron Weasley. Scratch that. Harry’s execution is far worse than Ron Weasley’s. 

“Dr. Riddle. Trauma.”

Harry freezes. 

No. No, no, no, no, no.

Surely not —

But Coffee Machine Man shifts his weight, steps forward, and with the slow precision of a man who has waited for this exact moment since four in the morning, Coffee Machine Man smugly flips around his keycard, which is embezzled with his name:

Dr. Tom Riddle.

Head of Trauma Surgery. 

Harry’s jaw physically drops.

Riddle smiles faintly at Harry’s gobsmacked face, before flicking what Harry thinks — if he squints hard enough — is an emerald-encrusted golden watch. “You,” he says coolly, “are late. Chief Pomfrey called your name approximately four seconds ago. That doesn’t bode well for your charting speed.”

Harry scrambles up, nearly catching his foot on the leg of his chair, speeding to Riddle’s side with the agility of a cat and the persistence of a stray duckling. The other interns are watching him; he can feel their gazes prickling on the back of his neck. Hermione’s sympathetic look, Ron’s slightly ajar mouth, even Chief Pomfrey looks as if she’s shaking her head in mock pity and bidding Harry her condolences. 

“Mr. Potter,” Riddle says, enunciating Harry’s name disturbingly gleefully, “You’ve already demonstrated a gift for being where you don’t belong, and now, a delay in auditory processing. Would you like to add poor posture to the list?”

Harry straightens so fast his vertebrae pops.

“Careful, Potty,” Draco Malfoy, heir of one of the most prominent medical companies in the world and Harry’s medical school rival, elbows him on his way out, trailing Dr. Snape. “We wouldn’t want you to end up in the trauma bay. Looking a bit faint there, eh?”

“You’re shadowing a pharmacist, Malfoy,” Harry deadpans, wrenching himself out of Malfoy’s reach. 

When Harry comes back to his senses, his blind rage gone with the wind and his ego partially destroyed, Riddle is already sweeping out the door, not bothering to call Harry after him. 

Harry grinds his teeth together. 

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“We have five ORs stationed around the hospital. You are not to, under any circumstances or without adequate permission, enter an operating room. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Harry mumbled, trailing after Riddle through the busy hallway. 

Riddle swipes his keycard at the last possible moment, and Harry is almost positive it’s a jab at him to learn how to scurry, for he has to nearly throw himself over the threshold to prevent being flattened into a Harry-shaped pancake in less than a millisecond.

“What happened to you?” Riddle says innocently over his shoulder. “You were so sweet in the lounge room.”

“Nothing,” Harry grumbles this time. He tugs his scrubs flush against his body, as if that will provide some sort of comfort source to him, idly following Riddle into what seems to be his office. 

The door is engraved in silver in Riddle’s name, paired with a golden door handle and a blind-clad window. The door pushes open without a sound, the sound of a lock clicking as it falls shut behind Harry. Riddle begins rummaging around the many files organized into neat, clinical stacks on his desk, before revealing one with a satisfied smirk. 

Harry lingers awkwardly near the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest and feeling ten times more regretful that he applied to St. Mungo’s General as an intern rather than Phoenix Cross — surely now, the more rewarding choice. And, less horror-filled. 

“So,” Riddle says smoothly, flipping open the file. “Harry Potter. Transferred top of his class from Hogwarts Medical, with nearly perfect marks in diagnostics and triage. Commended for composure during simulated crash scenarios. I assume the latter didn’t include sprinting through automatic doors?”

Harry swallows. “It’s my first day.”

“Is it?” Riddle says, almost mockingly. “I didn’t show up two hours early on my first day as an intern. Time, you’ll come to learn, is critical. Surgeries are not something you can be early to in trauma. They are inconsistent and at random. You need to be on time at all times.”

Harry shifts from one foot to the other, admiring the glittering tiles that must’ve been polished this morning because otherwise, surely they wouldn’t have been more muddy from the unforgiving thunderstorm raging on outside —?

“Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, I’m present,” Harry says quickly, mustering up his most winning smile and hoping that he looks a little, not too eager, even if it’s all fake.

Riddle hums. “I know that you are training to be a pediatric patient, that is why I’m trying to be patient with you. Trauma is ruthless and bloody. It is not rainbows painted onto walls and lollipops. We spend our mornings cracking open chests rather than passing out popsicles for a child telling the doctor that they have a persistent cough.”

Harry’s face twists. “That is not what pediatrics is about —“

“Then do enlighten me, Mr. Potter. Because I, myself, am still trying to dissect why I have been deemed a ‘compatible’ resident with an intern who spends their free time figuring out when the last time I cracked a smile.”

Harry sucks in a deep breath, attempting to grow off his heating nerves, and snatches his file out of Riddle’s hands in the same manner the man took Harry’s assignment to scrutinize at six a.m.  “I chose pediatrics because I want to be the reason a kid forgets, even just for a second, that they’re in a hospital,” he says. “Because if I can make them laugh, or feel safe, or forget the IV in their arm — then I’ve done something. I’ve made the worst day of their life a little bit better —”

“No,” Riddle interrupts. 

“No?” Harry repeats in disbelief. 

“No, that is not a real reason. You are lying to yourself.”

Harry splutters. “I am…I am not lying.”

Riddle turns, sharply, the office lamp light catching on the metal ID clipped to his coat. “You’re giving me a prepackaged answer, Mr. Potter. Something you probably told yourself to get through the last two years of coursework without quitting.”

Harry is so stunned that he doesn’t notice the flush of heat flooding his face until he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the small mirror mounted on the wall of Riddle’s office. “That’s not…”

“Not what?” Riddle cuts in smoothly. “Not the answer you rehearsed?”

Harry’s throat tightens. 

“You’re sentimental,” Riddle says, almost amused. “You think a smile and a sticker will undo a child’s trauma? That distraction is the same as treatment?”

Harry can’t comprehend how someone so cherished, so widely appreciated in the medical community, can spew such horrible words out of his mouth. The more Harry turns his answer over in his head, it’s admittedly see-through, but still. Even Hermione Granger, Hermione, who has a reputation for being a nosy know-it-all, had been kind enough to accept Harry’s reasoning without any further probing. 

This, this was a near violation. 

“I never said that —” Harry protests. 

“No,” Riddle continues, circling his desk so he’s leaning against the edge. “You said you want to make them forget they’re hurting. That isn’t medicine, that’s performance. That’s your own guilt masquerading as your definitive purpose.”

Harry flinches like he’s been slapped. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t need to,” Riddle says crisply. “I’ve had interns just your type before. You didn’t think you were the first, did you? Wide-eyed, stubborn, hearts too soft for triage, that’s why pediatrics drives them. You don’t even know why you're here,” he says sympathetically. 

“I do know why I’m here!” Harry snaps, clenching his fists into his scrubs. 

Riddle doesn’t flinch. “Then say it.”

Harry’s jaw ticks.

“Say the real reason, Mr. Potter. Not the job interview answer, not the one you think makes you sound good.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Harry hisses. 

“What do I not know? Do I need to list it again —?”

“I was beaten so badly one night that my aunt had to call an ambulance, and I had to get treated in the ER!” Harry blurts, voice hoarse. As if coming back to himself, his eyes widen a fraction, and he sinks into the wall, voice lowering to a heartbroken whisper. “I don’t want any child to ever go through that, or feel that way ever again.” His throat bobs. “I can only hope that I can save a child from that situation, in a way that I was never able to be.”

A heavy silence falls like a blanket in the room, just the sound of Harry’s thundering heartbeat and choked-out breaths. He hadn’t meant to say all of that. Riddle had pushed him to the point where his confession felt inauthentic. 

“There we go,” Riddle breathes, hands clasping beneath his chin. He peers at Harry through a lens of newfound curiosity. “Your motivation. What pushes you to pursue your passion.”

Harry blinks through watery eyes, squinting. “What?”

“Medicine is not neat, or clean, or kind,” Riddle explains. “But if your reason for being here —” he points at Harry, two fingers like a blade “— is real? If you can hold that reason close to your chest every day you walk into this hospital? I will give the St. Mungo’s General board a reason to make you stay.”

“You’re not going to write me up for yelling?” Harry scowls, directing a withering glare towards the floor. 

“Oh, I will write you up,” Riddle replies coolly, grabbing a pen. “For an unprofessional outburst, insubordination, and being two hours early without cause.”

Harry startles. “Are you serious?”

“But,” Riddle adds, pen frozen over the page, “I’ll also write that your instincts are sharp, your empathy is genuine, and you’re not here for the wrong reasons. Which, for a trauma attending, is the closest thing to a compliment you’ll get.”

Harry gapes at Riddle in horror. All of the terrifying stories, the meek warnings, the adhesive gazes, were all right about the head of trauma. He quite literally cannot decipher whether this is the most humiliating, rewarding, or traumatic experience of his entire life. The car crash simulators, the mock surgeries, the fake operations, in comparison to Riddle, seem like nothing now. 

Quite frankly, Harry wouldn’t mind throwing himself into the car crash simulators and being a real pedestrian involved in the fatalities. 

“Never have a panic attack like that in this hospital ever again, Mr. Potter,” Riddle warns, smacking his notepad back onto his desk, “if you freak out, a patient will likely freak out. You are a doctor now, Mr. Potter, you are meant to help, not be helped.”

Harry decides he hates Riddle.

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Just when Harry deems that his day can’t possibly grow worse, it somehow does. 

He sits criss-crossed on one of the bright blue stools in the cafeteria, mashing his potatoes with a white, plastic fork and replaying the events of his hours prior. His one remaining working earbud, strung to an old iPod, blasts his most depressing playlist, consisting of Fleetwood Mac and Jeff Buckley. 

Draco Malfoy plops into the seat across from him, with a home-packed lunch and a devilish smile brighter than the fires of the Seven Circles of Hell. 

“Draco!” Harry exclaims fakely, before his eyes narrow to menacing slits. “How can I help you?”

By the smug curve to Malfoy’s mouth, he is clearly enjoying Harry’s annoyed reaction to his presence. “You should be blessed by me sitting here, Potter. Many would be honored to have a billionaire dining with them during the lunch hour.”

“Well, I am not included in that many,” Harry says sweetly, jabbing his unworking earbud in and willing it to start playing music, just so that he can fully relish in droning out the sound of Malfoy’s whiny voice. 

Malfoy’s smile drops. “Heard your first day in trauma was rough.”

Harry frowns. “Who’d you hear that from?”

Malfoy’s grin flickers back for a second before coming back in full force at the first sight of Harry’s growing misery. “Riddle’s office door isn’t exactly soundproof, you know.”

Harry chokes on his bite of mashed potatoes just as a rolled-up magazine is whacked across the side of Malfoy’s head, sending him grasping a handful of platinum blond hair and shrieking. 

“That’s Dr. Riddle to you, Mr. Malfoy,” Chief Pomfrey says sharply, before flashing a warm smile in Harry’s direction. “It was Mr. Potter, right, dear?”

“Oh, er,” Harry stutters awkwardly, rubbing a sweaty hand on his scrubs and extending it sheepishly. “You can call me Harry…ma’am. Dr. Pomfrey. Chief.”

Chief Pomfrey giggles. “What a charming kid. You can just call me Chief Pomfrey.” She leans in, cupping a hand around her mouth, as if trying to be discreet. “I only reserve my formal title for the bullies,” she says, winking and cocking her head in Malfoy’s direction, who’s wailing about his priceless hair product. 

 “Uh, wow,” Harry says stupidly. “I mean, wow! Yes! So great to meet you. I’ve heard amazing things about your work.”

“Oh, psh,” Chief Pomfrey says, waving a careless hand in the air, as if she’s not the world-renowned author of hundreds of popular medical magazines and newspapers. If Harry squints hard enough, he’s sure he can catch a picture of her on the front cover of the one she’s holding, blinding white-smile and perfectly composed posture. “You flatter me, Dr. Potter.” Her smile fades. “I actually came to see how you were doing. I heard you had a bit of a rough time with Dr. Riddle today.”

Harry groans. “How far has news of my outburst spread within this hospital?”

“Not far,” Chief Pomfrey says, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “It was more the storming out after and declaring that you’re demanding a re-assignment of your resident that people found interesting.”

Harry pales. 

“But no need to worry,” she says, pinching Harry’s cheeks fondly. “Everyone has a bad first day with Dr. Riddle. It’s only day zero, after all. You only have three months longer to go, then you’ll be out of training and in the pediatrics department!” She leaves with a cheery wave and a grand flourish, leaving Harry to let his head fall into his hands in despair. 

Malfoy, who seems to have recovered from his great hair disaster, laughs. “Thought that she would reassign you, hm?”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry mutters through gritted teeth. 

Malfoy shrugs. “I only came here to do the same as Chief Pomfrey. My cousins have not-so-fond memories of working under Riddle’s wrath. Don’t take what he says personally,” he says, popping open his lunchbox and biting into a turkey sandwich. “And, don’t fret, I’ve seen worse tantrums than yours.”

Seriously? Well wishes from Malfoy, of all people? Was that how fucked Harry was? 

“Thanks,” Harry says bitterly, scooping another pile of mashed potatoes onto his fork. 

“After all, there are much worse things in the world, like killing someone,” Malfoy suggests, dabbing his mouth with a silk embroidered napkin. 

Harry sours at the reminder, swallowing thickly.

Tomorrow is his first day in the ER. 

Malfoy snorts. “Don’t tell me you already have?”

“Of course I haven’t,” Harry snaps. “I haven’t even been in the ER yet.”

“You haven’t?” Malfoy asks apologetically. “Shame. I have.”

Harry, embarrassingly enough, chokes on his second bite of mashed potatoes during the lunch period. “What?” he splutters, coughing up bits of solid potato into his paper napkin. He ignores the way Malfoy’s nose crinkles in disgust, continuing to wheeze. “How?”

Malfoy’s grin widens like a Cheshire smile, slow and languid. “Why, I was shadowing a pharmacist, Potter.”

Chapter Text

Harry gets, maybe, a very generous three hours of sleep on the bunk he’s sharing with Ron, before there’s a blinding and blaring light in his face. 

“Get enough beauty sleep?” Hermione says dryly, cocking her head in the universal signal that tells Harry to scoot over. 

Harry bats away the flashlight she’s aiming at his face, more like a fucking torch, and rolls over just slightly. Hermione lets out an unsatisfied hmph, but nonetheless, climbs up the rickety ladder and collapses onto the graciously empty spot Harry left her, cradling a spare pillow to her chest. 

“Long day out with Dr. Tonks?” Harry whispers.

Hermione fluffs up her pillow, smacking it repeatedly across the bed frame in undignified thunks that have Harry wincing, nodding. Her messy curls sprawl across the linen of the pillow as she lies back, staring widely at the ceiling. “I thought pediatrics would be performing grotesque surgeries on children, not dealing with broken bones and handing out lollipops.”

Harry sighs sadly, dwelling on the many stickers and lollipops he could be giving out to cute toddlers. “Just my cup of tea.”

She tosses him an amused glance. “I heard about your endeavors with Dr. Riddle. Bad day, huh?”

“You bet.”

“Shh! I’m trying to sleep!” Ron hisses from the lower bunk, and the two fall silent.

Harry exhales slowly through his nose, flipping onto his other side to stare at the wall and will himself back into sleep. He’d managed one good hour before his dreams transformed from talking cones of cotton candy to an angry Riddle who demanded Harry tell his trauma stories to groups of children, thinking that they were in a storybook session. 

He can tell Hermione’s already lapsed into a shallow sleep by the way she’s snoring softly. 

Harry’s eyes flutter shut, the beginnings of the dreamworld overtaking him away from this gruesome hospital, images of dancing stars and glass syringes already flicking across his dark vision…

The door opens with a bang! and now everyone is sent scrambling with Harry.

Ron hits his head on the bottom of the top bunk with an audible bang, and Hermione’s eyes are wider than Harry thinks to be cosmically possible, darting in every direction as if cataloging danger. The three sit up fully in the bunk beds, directing withering glares towards the door at their intruder. 

Riddle stands in the doorframe, one leg crossed over the other, the golden light from the hallway spilling around his shadowed form. “Sleep time is over. Dr. Potter, get up. You’ve been in bed since twelve in the morning. It’s time to get a move on it.”

“Sue me,” Harry mutters, smashing his face into his pillow. 

“What was that?” Riddle’s voice sounds sharper now, more clipped. 

“On it, Dr. Riddle!” Harry scrabbles over Hermione, murmuring tired, soft-spoken apologies as he digs an elbow into her ribs, clambering down the ladder hastily. Once his feet hit the floor, he finishes tugging on his scrubs over his head, he blinks sleepily up at Riddle. “Yes, Dr. Riddle?” he asks sluggishly. 

“Let’s go,” Riddle snaps, barely holding open the door widely enough for Harry that, yet again, he has to nearly jump to prevent the door from smacking into the side of his face. 

Harry cringes as the hall lights stream into his eyes, and he shields his face, peering at Riddle through his fingers. Despite not getting any sleep for a full twenty-four hours, Riddle somehow still manages to look infuriatingly perfect, dark brows set in a furrow and cheekbones carved from marble. There’s a small splatter of blood on his shoulder, as if he’d encountered an unexpected wound, and his jaw is set. 

“What’s happening?” Harry yawns, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. 

“Nothing,” Riddle says blankly. 

Harry awakens then, feeling like a fresh wave of hot coffee has just been poured over his head. “What?”

Riddle catches Harry by the elbow as he stumbles to a slow, yanking him along past a crowd of huddled attendings and residents glancing down at a few laminated images of what looks to be a fractured knee. “There is no emergency we need to attend to. I’m training you, which means I get to decide your sleep schedule. Trauma doesn’t sleep, Dr. Potter.”

“But I’m not trauma,” Harry protests, staggering after Riddle. “I’m pediatrics! How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Quiet, Potter. Patients are trying to rest in the waiting room.”

Harry’s mouth snaps shut as they walk through a sliding door into a clearing, filled with bright, lavish, cushioned chairs, a tank filled with gold-gilled fish, and calming music trickling from the intercom bolted to the uneven ceiling. They stop in front of a large, curved desk, files upon files stacked to the brim atop the surface, the clicking of a keyboard echoing from just beyond. 

“Cho, darling, would you mind providing my intern here with what’s occurring in the waiting room currently?” Riddle asks politely, hands stuffed in his scrub pockets. 

Harry’s brows furrow; he can’t possibly understand what Riddle means by what’s going on in the waiting room. It’s a waiting room, for heaven’s sake. This part of the hospital is connected to urgent care, not the emergency room. He shuffles from one foot to the other awkwardly as a black-haired girl pokes her head up over the edge of the countertop. 

Cho Chang, night-shift triage nurse, lifts her head with the exhausted grace of someone running solely on a coffee chain latte. Her long hair is pulled back into a perfect bun, one that has somehow not moved a single millimeter in what must be a fourteen-hour shift. She gives Riddle a tired but respectful nod before her soft eyes cut to Harry. 

“Oh, it’s you,” she says flatly.

Harry blinks. “You know me?”

“We went to medical school together, at Hogwarts. I was a year ahead of you. You probably don’t remember me…I only know you because of the carrot muffin incident.”

Harry flushes beet red. 

“I am not going to inquire about what this ‘carrot muffin incident’ is,” Riddle says blandly, “because there are much more important things to dwell on than school reunions. Please, do go on, Cho.”

Cho clears her throat and gestures behind her with a highlighter. “We’ve had three families come in with kids who all decided tonight was a great night to try trampoline stunts. One of them’s got a suspected fracture, the other two are just here to prove that a sugar high and peer pressure can, in fact, lead to near-death experiences.”

Harry leans slightly to glance past the desk. Sure enough, three small boys — maybe eight or nine — are sitting on the cushy chairs, one with his arm in a makeshift sling and the other two arguing over a half-eaten pack of Skittles. An exasperated mother, possibly in her pajamas, is threatening to throw all their tablets out the window and is braiding her hair in a worried and hysterical manner.

“And in room two,” Cho adds, tapping her pen against the triage chart, “we’ve got a teenager who passed out in the locker room after cheer practice. Fainted flat into the water fountain. Minor concussion, possible sprain. She’s mostly just embarrassed.”

“Your people,” Riddle says to Harry, gesturing vaguely toward the chaos with a nod. “Go.”

Harry doesn’t move.

“Go?” Riddle repeats, slightly more pointed this time. “You want pediatrics? There’s your playground.”

Harry straightens up, still blinking away clouds of sleep, but is now at least fueled by sheer indignation, even if it’s at Riddle’s hand. “I am not a child, you know. I am a doctor.”

“No,” Riddle says dryly. “But you are someone who thinks stickers are a form of medical therapy.”

Harry glares. “Only the glitter ones.”

With a wave of Riddle’s hand that’s clearly meant to say, scram, Harry lets out a long-suffering sigh and trudges towards the waiting area. He digs through his coat pocket for a ball-point pen and tries to recall what Hermione said about triage flow charts yesterday. He runs a hand through his messy hair, bites his lip until he can muster up his most friendliest smile, and steps into the wolf's den. 

Customer service. 

Behind him, Riddle leans against the counter with ease and crosses his arms. 

“Should I start the timer?” Cho murmurs, lips twitching.

“Five minutes,” Riddle murmurs back. “He’ll either charm them all or get hit in the face with a juice box.”

“If he doesn’t get assaulted by a juice box, I’ll throw my chart at him. I’m still a known legend among the interns for smacking Dr. Snape in the face with it one time,” Cho offers.  “I doubt that will be necessary by how this is playing out,” Riddle muses, and they both turn to watch Harry.

｡⋆ـــﮩ٨ـ‧₊⋆𐙚

This is Harry’s lay of the land. 

The waiting room reeks of apple-cider flavored hand sanitizer, sour candy, and overturned juice cartons. The trampoline kids are huddled up in the furthest corner of the room near the fish tank. One is tapping at the glass of the tank eagerly in an attempt to scare the goldfish away, another, with a sling, is playing a suspiciously violent game on his mom’s phone, with the volume turned up, and the third is sobbing into his mother’s shoulder. 

Harry feels a pang of sympathy wedge itself into his heart. 

“Hi,” Harry says enthusiastically, crouching slightly to appear more kid-friendly and less sleep-deprived. “I’m Dr. Potter. I hear we’ve had some Olympic-level trampoline stunts gone wrong tonight?”

All three turn to stare at him.

Goldfish-Terrorizing-Boy immediately asks, “Are you a real doctor?”

Harry blinks. “Yes.”

“You don’t look like a doctor,” says Sling Kid suspiciously. “You look like you cry a lot.”

“We all have our days,” Harry mutters, but quickly plasters a smile back on. “Anyway, how about we do a quick check-in while your forms are being processed? How are we all feeling? It looks like a few of our nurses were able to start on some treatment for you before I get could to checking you all out.”

Goldfish-Terrorizing-Boy points. “Liam’s the one with the broken arm. I just fell and bounced really good.”

Harry nods understandably, as if he spends his free time catapulting himself into the netting of cheap trampolines, and gently extends a hand. “Is it okay if I take a quick look?”

Liam’s lip wobbles, and he slowly lifts his head off his mom’s shoulder, holding out his arm. He winces in pain, and his face screws up with the expression of a child attempting to put on a brave front, something that Harry always admired about children. 

Harry carefully assesses the wrist without removing the sling. It appears to be a clean, non-displaced fracture, based on the swelling. He’ll ask Riddle to double-check with radiology later, but it’s nothing urgent. On second thought…these kiddos could probably get discharged before the sun rises. 

Harry gently lets go of Liam’s sling and rises to his feet, turning towards the mom — who now has one braid in and one halfway done, looking half like a Disney princess and half like she’s about to throw up in a trash can. “I’ll get him over to imaging,” Harry says gently. “And I’ll check on the other two in just a sec. You’re doing great.”

Her eyes brim with exhausted gratitude. “Do you have kids, Dr. Potter?”

Harry smiles. “No, but I’ve been a camp counselor. Close enough, without the legal paperwork and constant temper tantrums.”

She laughs, and Harry takes it as a win.

Just as Harry’s rising to his feet, brushing his hands off on the front of his scrubs, he hears the unmistakable splat of something wet and squishy. Then a cold, sugary sensation begins dripping down the back of his neck, sticky liquid soaking into the undershirt he’s wearing beneath his priceless scrubs. 

His priceless, Capri Sun -soaked scrubs. 

“Oops,” Goldfish-Terrorizing-Boy says innocently.

Harry blows out a breath, shivering at the sensation of peach-mango juice seeping into his skin, and gives Goldfish-Terrorizing-Boy the brightest smile he can find. “I think we might need to implement a new rule about projectile beverages in the waiting room because of you, bud.”

“Are juice boxes okay?” Sling Kid asks sweetly.

Harry winks. “Only if they stay sealed and earthbound.” With one last discussion with the mom over paperwork and medical expenses, he pivots on his heel, slapping on a very fake grin, and marches back to the check-in desk, where Riddle and Cho wait expectantly. 

Cho doesn't look up from her keyboard. “Three minutes and forty-nine seconds.” She then reaches for something behind a stack of paperwork, withdraws a clump of tissues, and hands them to Harry without another word. 

Harry accepts it gratefully and dabs at his neck, wincing as it sticks.

“You did well,” Riddle says, and for a second, Harry’s not entirely sure he heard correctly.

“What?”

“I’m not repeating myself. Your patients will only want to explain themselves once.” Riddle gives him a level stare before frowning and heading towards the sliding doors, swiping his keycard along the pad to get back into the central area of St. Mungo’s General. 

Harry’s still blinking after him when Cho nudges a roll of pediatric stickers toward him. He looks down. They're shaped like cats in lab coats and say things like “PAW-sitive Attitude” and “I’m Purr-scribed Awesome!”

He pockets two without shame.

｡⋆ـــﮩ٨ـ‧₊⋆𐙚

“Bay four,” Riddle says. “That’s your concussion girl. She got transferred over to neurology in the past half hour for a potential scan to examine abnormal brain activity. She’s still ours…not Dr. Trelawney’s yet, if you want to grab her.”

“Cheerleader?” Harry inquires blankly, trying to bleed just the right amount of professionalism into his tone so he doesn’t have to deal with Riddle’s unwavering hatred.

“Yep. I’ll be sitting in on this one.”

“Don’t you have places to be?” Harry blurts before he can stop himself.

Riddle quirks a dark brow. “Of course I do. I’m the head of trauma, Dr. Potter. I have surgeries on my schedule starting as early as five in the morning, I have drugs to administer to my patients, I have a full emergency room I need to attend to, but, I also have an intern to train.” His gaze is impassive as it flicks over Harry’s face, which is still specked with remnants of juice from the Capri Sun Disaster. 

Harry snaps into action, scrubbing at his glowing pink cheeks with the back of his hand, speed-walking in the direction of bay four before Riddle can berate him on how doctors have to look on top of their game at all moments. 

The lighting in bay four is dimmed, the curtain half-drawn to privacy, and Harry gently raps his knuckles against the frame. “Hi. Dr. Potter. I’m here to check on —”

“Do not look at me.”

Harry freezes in place, his face surely betraying him to look shell-shocked to Riddle, who raises an expectant brow from where he lingers just slightly behind. The voice is mortified, and laced with so much teenage wrath that Harry momentarily considers whether he should just back away slowly and pretend this never happened. Instead, he swallows his pride and peeks through the curtain, offering his brightest smile. 

Riddle slowly trails behind, leaning against the frame in quiet observation. 

The girl, who looks about sixteen, is lying on the hospital cot with one arm flung dramatically over her eyes, a wrapped ankle propped up on a pillow and a tiny ice pack strapped to her temple. Her cheer uniform is rumpled, her mascara smudged from hours of rubbing at watery eyes.  “I look like a raccoon,” she cries.

Harry tries to keep his face neutral. “You look like someone who survived a minor head injury.”

“Liar,” she mumbles into her elbow.

Harry snags a stool and rolls over to her bedside, clasping his hands beneath his chin in what he hopes looks at least a little bit comforting. “I’ve treated three kids tonight who got launched off a trampoline. One of them told me I looked like I cry a lot.”

The girl peeks at him from under her arm. “Do you?”

“Sometimes,” Harry admits, lowering his voice to a secretive whisper, “but only in supply closets where no one can see.” 

A breathy, reluctant laugh escapes her. “I just didn’t want to let my team down. It was our last summer showcase.”

Harry nods. “I get that. Wanting to be strong for everyone else.” He pauses, then lifts a brow. “But you’re also allowed to be the one who needs help sometimes. Trust me. I had peach mango juice poured down my back not even fifteen minutes ago and still haven’t fully recovered.”

She winces, then smiles, just a little. “That’s rough, Dr. Potter.”

“Tell me about it.”

Following a brief neurology check, pupil dilation, balance, coordination, he jots a few notes on his clipboard and tucks his pen behind his ear. Her symptoms are consistent with a mild concussion and a sprained ankle. No overnight stay necessary, just monitoring, rest, and a lot of electrolyte drinks. Riddle hands him a bottle of Gatorade that he passes over to the despaired cheerleader, who accepts it thankfully. 

“Do I get a sticker?” she asks teasingly as he finishes writing.

Harry produces the sheet from his pocket with a flourish. “You get two. Pick wisely.”

She chooses “PAW-sitive Attitude” and “Feline Fine.” Harry sticks one on the ice pack at her temple and the other on her wrist wrap.

“I’m putting that on my Insta,” she mutters.

“Tag me,” Harry says with a wink. 

He leaves her smiling, pushing the curtain closed behind him — and immediately collides with a wall of Riddle.

Harry lets out a yelp and stumbles back. “Do you live in the hallways? I thought you were still in the room! Weren't you leaning against the frame like two seconds ago?”

Riddle looks down at him in distaste. “You’re in my hallway.”

“This is a hospital,” Harry says, jabbing a finger upward. “There are no assigned hallways.”

“I beg to differ.” Riddle steps aside as if Harry’s the one in the way, motioning down the corridor with a jerk of his chin. “We’re heading to post-op.”

“Why?” Harry groans. “I just got mango out of my scalp.”

“There’s a pediatric case waiting for suture removal and follow-up,” Riddle replies, already walking. “And I’d like to see if you can manage to exit a room without wearing someone’s bodily fluids.”

Harry jogs to catch up, mumbling, “That was juice. Juice doesn’t count.”

“Sticky is sticky,” Riddle says, with maddening finality.

They pass by a tired nurse transporting a floating tray of used bandages, a coffee-fueled intern clutching a chart like it’s a life raft, and Dr. Tonks, who’s pinning glow-in-the-dark stars to the ceiling of pediatrics again because “positive visual stimuli promotes healing.”

And Harry thinks, for a second, as he trails Riddle into the buzzing nerve center of the ward: this is kind of hell.

｡⋆ـــﮩ٨ـ‧₊⋆𐙚

Harry learns, that he in fact, cannot leave a room without wearing someone else’s bodily fluids. 

It’s a curse, he thinks. He’s been cursed. Dr. Riddle has placed a curse on him that no matter where Harry goes, a neverending stash of blood and juice boxes promises to greet him. 

He staggers out of bay eight, covered in an absurd amount of vomit, and squeezes his eyes shut as he blindly grapples for his clipboard in a half-assed effort to avoid looking at the mess of himself. 

“Need directions to the showers?” someone says sympathetically from behind him. Harry’s eyes fly open, to where Ron is in an identical situation just beyond the curtain of bay seven. He frowns. “How are you not freaking out right now?”

“Oh, I was,” Ron says, voice unnaturally high. “Dr. Trelawney got so fed up with me, said my spiritual aura was too high, that she sent me to the showers. Which, I really understand, because I was shrieking quite a bit.”

Harry cringes. “So, er, where are these showers?”

“Oh,” Ron says. “I have no clue. I was going to ask you that.”

“Across the lounge room!” Hermione calls as she half-sprints, half-jogs behind Dr. Tonks, who’s speedily heading towards the only available operating room. “You can use my shampoo!” she hollers. “It’s vanilla and lilac flavored!”

Ron’s nose crinkles as Hermione fades from view. “Ew. Girl scents.”

Harry shrugs, outstretching his arms in a show of, rather that or vomit? and Ron gives him a definitive nod, leading them in the direction of the showers. 

They navigate the chaotic, maze-like hallway, a minefield of rolling gurneys and scurrying nurses. The smell of disinfectant mixed with various unidentifiable bodily fluids hangs heavy in the air. Ron, still making small, high-pitched noises, bumps into a particularly stern-looking orderly.

"Watch it, sonny!" the orderly barks, adjusting his glasses. "This ain't no playground."

"Sorry, sir," Ron mumbles, shrinking slightly.

Harry, still feeling a distinct squish in his shoes, just wants to get clean. He spots a sign that reads "STAFF SHOWERS" with an arrow pointing down a dimly lit corridor. "This way," he announces, a desperate hope in his voice.

They push open a heavy fire door and are met with a sight that is both a blessing and a curse. It's a locker room, undeniably. And there are showers. But the floor is slick, and a pervasive smell of stale water and something vaguely metallic assaults their noses. Harry attempts to gaslight himself into thinking that there is not a pile of bloody scrubs lying bunched up in the corner of the locker room.

"Well," Ron says, his voice echoing in the tiled space, "it's not exactly the luxurious spa experience Dr. Trelawney promised."

Harry shudders. "I don't think Dr. Trelawney promises anything but impending doom." He gestures to a row of open lockers. "Pick a spot."

They strip off their soiled scrubs, wincing at the cold, clammy fabric. Ron's pale skin is dotted with various unidentifiable splatters, and Harry is a mosaic of greens and browns.

"Right," Harry says, grabbing a bar of what appears to be industrial-strength soap from a dispenser. "Let's just get this over with." He steps into the nearest shower stall, turning the knob. A hesitant trickle of lukewarm water emerges.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Ron exclaims from the next stall over, as a sudden gush of icy water drenches him. "Bloody hell, this is freezing!"

Harry chuckles, a genuine laugh finally escaping him. He lathers up, trying to ignore the lingering scent of vomit. Hermione's vanilla and lilac shampoo, though a "girl scent" according to Ron, suddenly sounds like a dream.

Ron continues to yelp and shiver next to him. "My spiritual aura is definitely plummeting now, Harry! I'm pretty sure I'm going to emerge from this shower as a princess.”

"You were already halfway there, mate," Harry teases, rinsing off the last of the grime. He feels remarkably lighter, both physically and mentally, despite the less-than-ideal showering conditions.

As they emerge, wrapped in thin, scratchy towels, Ron shivers again. "Never thought I'd say this, but I almost miss the vomit."

Harry snorts. "Don't tempt fate. Riddle might hear you." He eyes Ron's still-damp hair. "At least we're clean. Now, about those clean scrubs..."

"Good point," Ron says, looking around the empty locker room. "Think they have a vending machine for those?"

Harry pretends to think, even though the answer is hanging right over his head. “Likely not. Fancy our residents will let us scrub into surgeries in these?”

“You two are funny,” a voice echoes from the next stall over, chuckling. 

Ron blanches, and Harry makes a discreet motion towards the door, signaling that they need to get the hell out of there before the mystery person reported them. Just as the two finish adequately wrapping their towels around their waists and are prepared to confront an eternity of embarrassment in the hall beyond, the shower door creaks open, revealing a face plastered onto more then thousands of medical research papers and magazines. 

Ron makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “You….your, your,” he stutters out. 

“Dumbledore?” Harry mutters, at the same time Ron squeals, “Highness!”

Dr. Albus Dumbledore, former Chief Resident of St. Mungo’s General and five time winner of Best Doctor in Great Britain smiled down at them, blue eyes twinkling. “No need for the silly formalities, my boys. After all, I am just another doctor,” he winks, “like you two. Run along now, boys. You wouldn’t want to keep your residents worried. Or maybe do…it keeps them on their toes. And well, as for your scrubs…you’ll find fresh ones in your lockers.”

“Lockers?” Harry questions. 

Dumbledore points a slender finger towards the other side of the wall, where columns of lockers are mounted to the wall, each glinting silver and with a name badge identical to the one clipped to their scrubs. 

Oh. That’s new. 

“It was so nice meeting you,” Ron gushes, hardly being able to contain his excitement. 

Dr. Dumbledore chuckles. “As one might say, tweedle de thumb, twiddle de dee.” Dr. Dumbledore winks once more and sweeps out the door with his scrubs in hand, leaving behind a confused Harry and an even more confused Ron. 

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Harry says. 

“I heard it’s better not to question it,” Ron replies distantly, still starry eyed. 

｡⋆ـــﮩ٨ـ‧₊⋆𐙚

At dinner, Harry is smushed between Ron and Hermione, across from a brooding Malfoy — who got yelled at for moving a pill out of its color coordination line — for a max of two minutes before he is hoisted up out of his chair by an unknown force. 

“You will be sitting at my table today,” Riddle says blankly. 

“I will?” Harry repeats, face scrunching up. “That’s a rather straightforward request, don’t you think?”

“We’re showing off interns. I’m winning by far, but Snape is catching up quickly. If you come sit with me it will give me the push I need to win the competition.”

Harry sits back down promptly. “Yep. Nope. Sorry. I’m not participating in an Intern-Off competition during my dinner hour. I’m planning to sleep after this, and the lord knows what time you’ll wake me up. I’m cherishing every moment by myself, Dr. Riddle.”

“You will come with me right this instant, Potter.”

“I will not.”

“I will!” Malfoy chirps happily from across the table. “You said that Snape is nearly in the winning lead, Dr. Riddle? Whose intern is I? I will gladly tag along to help my superior.”

Ron snorts from beside Harry. “Show-off,” he mutters beneath his breath. 

Riddle looks between Malfoy and Harry with a narrowed gaze, like he’s calculating how many brain cells might survive if he accepts Malfoy’s offer. His lips flatten. “No. Sit down, Malfoy.”

“But —”

“I said sit.”

Malfoy deflates like a balloon and slinks back into his seat, stabbing moodily at his home-packed salad, that Harry is almost a hundred-percent sure his mom made for him.

Riddle returns his attention to Harry, expression unchanging. “You will come sit with me. That is not a suggestion.”

Harry crosses his arms. “Then I am not a very obedient intern.”

Hermione, chewing a forkful of steamed rice, murmurs, “He’s not.”

“I noticed,” Riddle says flatly. Riddle steps closer, leans in, and in a voice that should not send a shiver down Harry’s spine, says, “You are on the verge of being left with Draco Malfoy as your table partner for the remainder of the week. Your call.”

Harry looks at Malfoy, who’s now organizing the cucumber slices on his plate into a perfect circle. Then, he reluctantly stands with a sigh so theatrical it earns an eye roll from Hermione.

“Traitor,” Ron mutters, elbowing Harry as he slides out from between them.

Harry grabs his tray. “Say a prayer for me.”

Riddle, victorious in only the way someone evil and elegant could be, turns on his heel and strides away without another word. Harry trudges after him, dragging his feet and tray and soul like he’s off to the gallows.

Their new table is situated near the end of the room — secluded, quieter, suspiciously spotless. A few other attendings are scattered around, all of whom look like they own stock in highlighters and surgical precision. Dr. Snape is seated one table over, his mouth twisting into something between a sneer and a knowing smirk when he spots Harry following behind Riddle like an intern-shaped storm cloud.

“Well, well,” Dr. Snape drawls. “Look who’s joined the adult table.”

Across the aisle, Ron stabs a green bean dramatically and mouths, traitor. Hermione mouths back, stop being a baby.

“Eat,” Riddle says now, spearing a piece of grilled chicken like it insulted his family lineage. “You’ll need the energy. I’m taking you to shadow the trauma consult overnight.”

Harry freezes. “What?”

“Congratulations,” Riddle says, taking a bite and chewing slowly. “You’ve been promoted to an even more exhausting level of hell.”

Harry stares at him, fork suspended in midair. “That wasn’t even on the schedule.”

“I rewrote the schedule.”

Harry glares. “I hate you.”

“Excellent,” Riddle says, folding his napkin calmly. “That means I’m doing something right.”

｡⋆ـــﮩ٨ـ‧₊⋆𐙚

Trauma, Harry learns, is horrifying. 

It’s grotesque, it’s bloody, it’s brutal, he notes, as two patients are sent on a wheeling gurney, one with a scissors stuck through the side of their head and the other with said scissors twisted in their hand. 

And Riddle…Riddle is smiling. 

Dr. Tom Riddle, Harry’s resident and teacher, is smiling as he’s barking orders left and right to the trauma team, covered in blood and antiseptic, looking far more composed than Harry’s sure he’ll ever feel in an ER. His rubber gloves are already on, scrubs coat speckled in flaky crimson, gripping the scissor-hands patients chart like it’s the only thing grounding him to the planet. 

"Intubate. Two large-bore IVs, now," Riddle calls. "Page neurosurgery, but tell them they have exactly six minutes before I start doing their job for them."

A nurse sprints past Harry, nearly clipping his shoulder in midst of the frantic rush. Another gurney screeches around the corner, followed by two more techs and a pale man yelling something about a jack-hammer related injury. And Harry — sweet, sleep-deprived, pediatrics-loving Harry — is frozen.

This is not lollipops and cartoon Band-Aids.

This is war.

A nurse slams down an instrument tray beside Riddle with a sound that makes Harry flinch. Everything is so…hurried. This is nothing like listening to a child’s heartbeat, or having them walk in a straight line across the floor, or calming them when they are receiving an influenza vaccine. This has Harry leaning against the wall, trying to take in everything in the least overwhelming way he can, in an effort to not breathe in the scent of any organs or exposed ribcage. 

Riddle — of course Riddle — looks like he’s been waiting for this all day.

His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows in a hurry, his hands inside of someone, as he removes one, holding it out expectantly towards Harry. Harry’s eyes are too wide and his mind is whirling too quickly to realize that oh, Riddle is asking him for suction. Harry is checking vitals and Riddle is asking him for suction. Riddle is asking him for suction. 

Harry stares at him for a second too long, because it’s him, not some abstract authority figure, not a faceless trauma god, but Riddle — with blood on his sleeves and a faint smirk tugging at his lips at Harry’s obvious insolence. Harry leaps into action, fumbling clumsily with the clear tub, struggling to get the tip into place. He guides it to the pooling crimson, which disappears almost instantly. 

Riddle, impossibly, gives a tiny nod. “Better. Stay focused. “You’re doing better than I expected, Dr. Potter. You haven’t thrown up once.”

“I’m not going to throw up,” Harry says through gritted teeth, which would sound more convincing if his knees weren’t actively wobbling.

“Mm.” Riddle stitches a gaping wound with eerie calm. “We’ll see.”

“If you need to step out,” a kind voice says from his left, and Harry turns to meet a face. A very…familiar ginger face. He squints closer just as the nurse laughs. “Ginny Weasley. I saw you and my brother, Ron, chatting at orientation yesterday morning.” She waves dramatically to her face. “Not many people in this hospital have a face full of freckles and electric hair.”

“I suppose not,” Harry mumbles, but gives Ginny his best smile and extends his hand. 

Ginny’s eyes widen, and uncertainty flickers across her face, her hesitation clear and prominent to the point where Harry glances down at his hand and…

Oh. That’s a lot of blood. 

“Oh,” Harry says again out loud, much smaller this time. He jerks his hand back so fast he nearly elbows a tray of gauze off the supply cart. “Right. That’s…that’s someone else’s blood.”

Ginny laughs, her white teeth gleaming in the hospital light. “Yeah, I figured. But points for the manners, Doctor.” She tosses him a fresh pair of gloves from a nearby dispenser. “Next time, lead with those.” As Harry scrambles to discard his bloody gloves and tug on a new pair, her voice lowers. “You’re holding up better than I did on my first trauma shift,” she says quietly, eyes scanning the bay. “I cried behind the med fridge twice.”

“That sounds like the preferable scenario out of the one I’m stuck in right now,” Harry mutters in agreement, “do you think anyone would notice if I disappeared for a little?”

“Riddle would,” Ginny warns. “He’s got a freaky sixth-sense about interns.”

“Nurse Weasley, Dr. Potter, focus!” Riddle snaps, as if summoned by name. His hair is matted in curls along his forehead, which has started to gleam with his effort of concentration. “There’s a new patient getting wheeled in right now. Save the romance for the lounge room.”

Ginny shrugs, giving Harry a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, I don’t swing that way. I’m lesbian.”

“Oh,” Harry says, gaping. “Right. That’s great, er, love that for you. I’m gay.”

Ginny snorts. “Couldn’t have fooled me.”

“Potter!”

The patient is barely conscious, squinting up at the blinding lights bolted to the ceiling, soaked in sweat and blood and something Harry’s concerned isn’t medically supposed to be yellow. The substance is gooey, seeping out of every wound and onto Riddle’s gloved hands, who’s already begun to put pressure on the wound. 

“Need a central line. Potter, get ready to assist. Try not to pass out.”

“Do people actually pass out doing this?”

“Yes,” Riddle replies, utterly unbothered as he adjusts the ultrasound probe. “Frequently.” Riddle glances at him. “Keep pressure on the wound while I prep. If you feel faint, step away, and let Nurse Weasley do the rest. I’d rather my intern faint onto the floor, rather then into the patient.”

Harry exhales slowly, gulps, and presses his hands to the sopping gauze wrapped criss-crossed over the patient’s abdomen. He can feel the pulsing of blood beneath his fingers, trickling onto the gurney and into the tight-wrapped bandages. 

“You’re doing fine,” Riddle says, low enough that it might have been meant for Harry alone.

It’s not kind, exactly. But it’s almost kind.

“I need a 20cc syringe. Potter, hand me —”

Harry springs into action without hesitation, the syringe landing in Riddle’s palm with a decisive snap. Riddle glances down at the syringe in his hand, then back up at Harry, who’s mouth is already twisted in a scowl at Riddle’s surprise. 

Riddle astonishingly, smirks. “Look at you. A regular trauma darling.”

Harry stares at him. “I will throw up if you ever call me that again.”

“I’d prefer if you waited until after the patient is stabilized,” Riddle murmurs, turning back to the procedure. He removes his hand from the inside of the patient, gloves covered in a mix of the suspicious yellow goo and splatters of blood. He holds out his bodily-fluid-covered hand towards Harry, cocking his head towards the larger, bigger…huge syringe resting on the instrument tray. 

Harry swallows down his bile and hands it over, biting the inside of his cheek worriedly as Riddle nearly stabs the syringe into the open wound, extracting a small amount of the yellow goo, before handing it over to Ginny. Just before her fingers can close around it, Riddle lets go of the syringe, sending it flying in the air as Ginny scrambles to catch it. 

And then it flies, very conveniently, smack-dab in the middle of Harry’s scrubs. 

“Hm,” Riddle muses, taking off his shield glasses to peer at the yellow goo dripping from Harry’s coat. “That’s strange. That’s never happened before.”

And Harry?

Harry passes out. 

Chapter Text

As Harry comes back to his surroundings in a haze of golden goo and crash carts, the first thing his eyes can filter out is Riddle, who is flipping through Harry’s personal chart with Harry’s name stickered on it. 

“Your vitals are stable. Blood pressure’s a bit low — likely from the fainting. And you managed not to concuss yourself on the way down. Congratulations,” Riddle says dryly. 

Harry glares at him, which Riddle chooses to ignore pointedly. Instead, he sits on the foot of the cot Harry is lying on, gaze flicking over Harry’s face and body as if cataloging any other injuries that might be hiding underneath Harry’s wrinkled scrubs. Feeling suddenly very self-conscious, dizzy, and annoyed, Harry tugs his coat flush around his body and scowls. 

“You did well for your first time in the ER,” Riddle says after a beat. “I think most interns would pass out if a syringe full of pus exploded on them.”

“You’re being weirdly nice.”

“I’m being professional.”

“You called me a trauma darling.”

Riddle looks down at the chart. “That was unprofessional.”

“You smirked.”

“That was an accident.”

“You smirked,” Harry repeats.

“Stop talking,” Riddle snaps. “You need to hydrate. The color hasn’t fully returned to your face yet, and I’m not letting you get back to work until this IV is done and you drink a full bottle of water.”

Harry’s brows furrow in confusion at the word IV, and his head lifts to where he is indeed, hooked to a drip with a very, very large needle embedded into the back of his hand. Harry is suddenly ten times more alert than he was mere moments ago. Even though he cannot see the needle very well, now that he is aware, he does feel a faint prickling sensation in his hand. “You put a needle in me?”

“A doctor afraid of needles,” Riddle hums. “Interesting. Yes, I did. You needed to get back your fluids, and clearly, judging by the look on your face before you passed out, a glass of water wasn’t going to do that.” His smile turns sharklike. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle when I pull it out.”

Harry growls, snatching his hand from Riddle’s prying grasp, and cradles it to his chest protectively. “If you are trying to be reassuring, you’re doing a terrible job at it.”

Riddle tilts his head, faux-considerate. “Would you prefer I yank it out like a lawn weed?”

“I would prefer you never touch me again.”

Riddle opens his mouth, likely to say something scathing in response that will surely send Harry home in tears with his belongings, but is interrupted by the IV machine letting out a cheery little beep-beep, as if congratulating Harry for surviving both yellow goo trauma and Riddle’s undignified bedside manner.

Riddle glances at the machine, then back at Harry, expression unreadable. “Good timing.”

And before Harry can protest, he’s already reaching for the IV line.

“Wait, um — can someone else do that?” Harry says, panic leaking into his voice as he pulls his arm reflexively away.

Riddle sighs, but not unkindly. “Potter. I’m a trauma surgeon. I’ve replaced spines and reconstructed limbs. You can handle me removing your IV.” 

He snorts at Harry’s darting eyes, as if Harry is desperately scanning for another nurse, but after the intern deems no savior is in sight, he slinks further into his cot and bitterly sticks his hand out for Riddle. 

Riddle’s fingers are shockingly gentle; he slips the needle out with barely a sting and presses a thick wad of cotton to the back of Harry’s hand before he can even register the spark of pain. “Hold that,” Riddle instructs, and tapes it down neatly when Harry doesn’t move fast enough. “Drink,” he says after, shoving a plastic water bottle into Harry’s hands. 

Harry thinks Riddle sounds rather like a caveman when he’s ordering, instructing, and shoving his trauma team and Harry around. He gives out bland one-word answers, refuses to crack a smile even at a crying child, and expects the world to fall to its knees whenever Riddle enters a room in a flourish of Prada scrubs and perfectly-gelled hair. 

“You have fifteen minutes,” Riddle calls over his shoulder, the mattress shifting as he stands up. “Drink all of that, as I will be checking.” His eyes narrow, and he gestures for Harry to take a sip. Harry twists off the cap and cringes, but listens. “And meet me in my office. If you’re late and your bottle isn’t empty, I’ll assign you to Malfoy’s shift this afternoon.”

Harry blanches. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. And Dr. Snape is out with a rather nasty cold, so he’ll be shadowing Dr. Lockhart in plastics.”

Harry scrambles upright like he’s been electrocuted. “That’s a cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Then hydrate faster,” Riddle calls over his shoulder, disappearing through the curtain with a swish of his pearly-white coat, yanking the curtain open behind him, as if intending to leave Harry with no privacy so he can scrutinize Harry’s water-drinking techniques. 

The moment Riddle rounds the corner, Harry tosses the bottle into the trash can. 

｡⋆ـــﮩ٨ـ‧₊⋆𐙚

Harry spends a good five minutes lingering outside Riddle’s office, mentally hyping himself up and preparing for the brutal scolding he’s almost positive he’s about to receive. It’s uncomfortably quiet, a stark contrast to the constant chaos of the ER he’d endured no less than an hour ago, an experience he wishes never to relive. 

He approaches the dark wood door etched with a gleaming silver nameplate:

Dr. Tom Riddle, MD | Head Trauma Surgery

Harry takes a second to smooth down his freshly borrowed scrubs — two sizes too large, with a bold “Property of St. Mungo’s General Laundry Services” tag scratching the back of his neck. He smells faintly of antiseptic and worse, but at least the mystery yellow goo has been thoroughly scrubbed off.

“Come in,” Riddle calls instantly, like he’s been waiting with his ear to the door.

Harry hesitantly pushes open the door, wincing as it makes an embarrassing creak! and pokes his head in. Riddle is seated behind his sleek desk, a flurry of anatomy models and stacks of post-op notes scattered in front of him. His office, like it did the day before, continues to lack any personal touches. Judging by Riddle’s choice of decoration, Harry assumes that Riddle doesn’t even have a life outside St. Mungo’s General. 

“You’re two minutes late,” Riddle says, not looking up.

“I had to find scrubs that weren’t —” Harry stops. “That hadn’t already been contaminated.”

“Unacceptable excuse,” Riddle says dryly. He finally glances up, and his eyes narrow. “Where’s your water? Did you not finish it?”

Harry’s spine straightens, defiant. “You didn’t say I had to finish it. You said drink. Present tense.”

Riddle leans back in his chair, tapping his pen against the bow of his mouth. “I specifically said — and I quote — ‘Drink all of that. I will be checking.’”

“I was distracted,” Harry says, nose wrinkling. “You threatened me with Malfoy and Lockhart.”

“That was not a threat. It is now a promise, seeing that you failed to uphold your end of our bargain.” 

“A bargain that wouldn’t have existed if I hadn’t passed out,” Harry snaps. 

Riddle shrugs. “Then you shouldn’t have. Those are your consequences to reap.” He leisurely smiles and gestures to the open seat before him, cracking open one of the post-op folders while he waits for Harry to sit down. 

Harry tugs out the chair more forcefully than he needs to, straightening his collar and hoping he looks decently presentable to the point where Riddle won’t lecture him on doctor beauty standards. He fidgets with his hands in his lap, shifting back and forth in the seat impatiently, waiting for Riddle to speak. 

He doesn’t. 

It’s almost as if he likes watching Harry squirm. 

“I have three months to prepare you for your evaluation before you rotate to the next department,” Riddle finally says. 

Harry swallows. “And what does this…evaluation consist of?”

“A solo surgery.”

Harry lurches forward. “What?”

“A minor solo surgery,” Riddle clarifies. “Performed under supervision, of course. You’ll be expected to diagnose, prep, and execute the procedure without direct instruction.”

Harry gapes. “I’m a first-year intern.”

“Give yourself a pat on the back,” Riddle says flatly. “You’ve reached the exciting stage of doing real doctor things with real consequences. This isn’t medical school anymore, Potter. Surgeries aren’t simulations. You aren’t operating on fake mannequins. This is your time to understand responsibility and perseverance. Not everything will come easily in the beginning,” he winces, “including staying conscious in the ER.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Riddle holds up a hand to silence him. 

“You’ll start shadowing surgical consults as of tomorrow morning. You’ll assist during minor operations, get scrubbed in for bigger ones when I decide you’re not going to faint again, and you’ll be required to present two case studies a week in trauma conference.” Riddle taps his fingers against his desk. “If you complete all of that without dying or killing someone, you’ll assist me with an appendectomy. Then you’ll perform your own at the end of our three months.”

“You trust me to do that?” Harry asks, gaping.

“Absolutely not.” Riddle looks up, his expression perfectly deadpan. “But I trust me to supervise you through it.”

Harry’s face falls, and he throws Riddle a dirty look as the resident settles back into his seat. 

“Run along now,” Riddle sings. “I have far more important things to do than babysit an intern all day. Dr. Lockhart and Malfoy should be in the cosmetics center awaiting your presence.”

Harry’s jaw drops. “I thought you were kidding.”

Riddle doesn’t even blink. “Do I look like someone who jokes? While you’re there, tell Malfoy I want a full surgical mapping of today’s rhinoplasty prep by seven. Dr. Lockhart requested my input on it. And don’t let Dr. Lockhart rope you into any weird business. He’s already under review with HR.”

Harry’s hands clench into fists as he abruptly stands from his chair, rattled, and heads for the door, pausing when his fingers wrap around the knob. He can feel Riddle’s gaze burning into his back, so he clenches his teeth and squares his shoulders for the stern talking-to and possibly board review he’s about to earn with his snarky mouth. 

“Bastard,” Harry mutters, yanking the door open.

“Trauma darling,” Riddle calls after him, just loud enough to be smug.

｡⋆ـــﮩ٨ـ‧₊⋆𐙚

The cosmetics wing of St. Mungo’s General is, unsurprisingly, the most glamorous part of the entire hospital — which isn’t saying much, considering the rest of it resembles a war zone with plumbing issues. 

But here, the walls are a calming lavender; the lights are dimmed to something more flattering than fluorescent, and there’s a gentle, non-committal instrumental melody piping in through unseen speakers. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus and something aggressively vanilla — like Hermione’s shampoo, Harry notes. 

Harry barely steps through the frosted glass doors before a golden shimmer catches the corner of his eye — and then Dr. Lockhart materializes from behind a curtain like a stage magician, positively glowing in his powder-blue scrubs and impossibly pristine teeth.

“Dr. Potter, love!” Dr. Lockhart beams, arms outstretched like he’s expecting a hug, one that Harry absolutely does not plan to give. “There you are. Dr. Riddle told me to expect you for our shift today.” He loops an arm around Harry’s shoulders before he can escape. “It’s about time you learned the cornerstone of cosmetic consultation: projecting inner peace through facial expression. It comforts the patients.” He pulls Harry toward the mirrored wall at the end of the hallway. “Repeat after me — I am calm, I am capable, I will not faint in front of attractive patients.”

Harry, stiff as a board and already regretting every decision that led him here, stares at his reflection in the mirror with quiet horror. The fluorescent lighting may be dimmed, but it’s still doing him no favors. His borrowed scrubs hang off his frame like he’s impersonating a mop, and his hair looks like he’s been strapped down to an MRI gone wrong.

“I am calm,” Harry repeats flatly.

Dr. Lockhart grins like a pageant judge. “Good! Now again, but with smize.”

Harry blinks. “With what?”

“Smiling with your eyes, dear boy! You’ve got to connect with the patient’s sense of self-worth while simultaneously distracting them from the fact that you’re about to stick needles in their face.”

Before Harry can come up with a witty response on the mark, or possibly an excuse on how he can get the hell out of the plastics department, Malfoy sweeps into the corridor, eyebrows already halfway to his hairline. 

“Oh, geez,” Draco sighs. “He’s got you in front of the mirror already?”

“Self-love is the foundation of aesthetic medicine,” Dr. Lockhart sniffs, releasing Harry with a pat. “Dr. Malfoy, we’ve discussed your deep-rooted cynicism.”

“And we’ve discussed your HR file, which is thicker than the Game of Thrones script,” Draco replies coolly. “Excluding season eight.”

Dr. Lockhart throws an arm in front of Harry before he can leap out the door. “Wait! Affirmation. One more time. With feeling.”

Harry sighs and faces the mirror again, dead-eyed. “I am calm. I am capable. I will not faint in front of attractive patients.”

Draco snorts. “You’re not even convincing yourself, Potty.”

Harry turns just enough to glare at him in the mirror’s reflection. “I’d like to see you do affirmations with this much dignity.”

“Please,” Draco says, stepping closer and flipping his clipboard with an exaggerated flick. “I ooze dignity. It’s in my family’s contract. But, I’m sure you wouldn’t understand. Your family is —”

“— your medical contract also includes handwriting legible enough for charts, and yet —” Harry begins, but Dr. Lockhart claps his hands, interrupting.

“Enough foreplay, children. There are wrinkles to smooth, jowls to lift, and facial reconstructive surgeries to complete.” He turns to Harry and squeezes his shoulders. “Deep breaths, Dr. Potter. This is where the magic happens.”

Every so often, Dr. Lockhart glances over and snaps his fingers at Harry. “You, love — how would you soften the orbital line here without interrupting the zygomatic balance?”

Harry stares. “Uh. Make her smile and dim the lights?”

Dr. Lockhart actually preens. “Clever! Completely wrong, but clever.”

Harry is pretty sure that’s not how that works, but he doesn’t have the brainpower to argue with a plastic surgeon at the moment, so he stays quiet and watches the procedure from afar, while he and Malfoy take turns sticking their tongues out at each other. 

Draco snorts. “You were supposed to serve as extra help, Potter. I’m pretty sure you’re dragging down the entire plastics department with you, as we speak.”

Harry glowers at him. “I hope the next patient wants a full face reversal and you're the template.”

“Oh,” Draco says smoothly, dabbing the patient’s cheek with numbing gel, “but who wouldn’t want to look like me?”

The patient — who has remained blissfully distracted this entire time — suddenly perks up. “Is he a model?”

Draco pauses. Then turns slowly to Harry with the most insufferable expression Harry’s ever seen. “I am now,” he says sweetly.

｡⋆ـــﮩ٨ـ‧₊⋆𐙚

“Long shift?”

Harry snaps back awake as Hermione’s voice floods into the break room, sweet and tender, as if she’s trying not to disturb his rest.

“Yeah, and it’s not even over yet,” Harry grumbles, adjusting the pillow propped up beneath his elbow. “I feel like I’ve been working for three days straight.”

Hermione flashes him a soft smile. “It’s probably because you have.”

Harry yawns, stretching his arms. “I’ll be okay. Dr. Chang offered to brew me one of her infamous pumpkin spice cold brews to get me through the day. Just a little headache, that’s all.”

Hermione’s frown deepens, and she tucks a bouncy curl behind her ear, plopping onto the couch beside Harry. “Well, a coffee is only going to make that worse. There’s probably some Advil in the crash cart in the hall. Do you want me to go grab some for you?”

Harry shakes his head mutely. “No, thank you. Riddle’s trying to get me to improve my endurance. He says that trauma is full of controlled suffering. Apparently, if I can’t function with a headache and four hours of sleep, I’ll never survive a mass casualty day.”

Hermione’s nose scrunches in disapproval. “I mean, Dr. Tonks can be strict at times, but she’s never that strict. She sent me here for a twenty-minute refresher break.”

Harry lets out a sigh of despair. “I’m here to finish this bottle of electrolyte water or else I’m threatened with another IV.”

Hermione cocks a brow. “Another?”

Harry deflates with exhaustion, sweeping a few sweaty strands out of his eyes so he can blink up sluggishly at Hermione, who has her chin propped up on her hand and is dutifully eyeing Harry’s pumpkin spice cold brew. “No, Hermione,” Harry scolds, placing his drink out of her curious grasp. 

Hermione blinks, feigning innocence. “What? I wasn’t going to steal it.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was just looking at it,” Hermione argues, leaning over the side of the couch armrest to get a better look. “Is that home-made whipped cold foam? Did Dr. Chang sprinkle cinnamon on top? Come on, Harry, just let me have a sip. You can’t even drink it anyway.”

“Try me,” Harry says, cradling his coffee protectively to his chest and narrowing his eyes to thin slits. 

Hermione puffs out a breath and slowly rises, nearly tripping over a pillow as gracefully and elegantly as someone can hook their foot on a pillow. “Drink your electrolytes and take a ten-minute nap. I’ll keep watch in case Riddle decides to lurk outside the door, slam it open, and catch you off guard.”

“It’s inevitable,” Harry warns. “He said he’s coming to check up on me in fifteen.”

“Better get to closing your eyes, then!” Hermione shouts as she swings through the door. 

Harry lolls his head back and groans, only to catch sight of Hermione through the window, skipping through the corridor in the direction of one of the OR observation rooms. In her hand…is an oddly colorful drink with home-made whipped cold foam and sprinkled cinnamon…one that looks nearly identical to the pumpkin spice cold brew that had once rested on the coffee table in front of Harry…

Harry rolls his eyes and lies back into the plush couch, throwing his forearm over his face and willing himself into some sleep for the next ten minutes he has. Either Harry is extremely sleep-deprived or is losing track of his sanity entirely in this hospital, because the door reopens no less than thirty seconds later. 

“Why is this bottle still full?” 

“It’s half-empty,” Harry mumbles into his arm, turning onto his side, the side that's furthest away from Riddle. 

“Half-empty,” Riddle echoes, voice flat and skeptical. “You call this —” a pause, the sound of plastic crinkling, “— half-empty?”

Harry tugs the linen pillow tighter over his head, as if it will block out the sound of Riddle’s voice and help him escape from the possibility that he might be able to save himself from being dragged into the ER again. There’s the soft sound of shoes approaching, and the couch dips. Harry thinks he might strangle himself with his pillow. He’s not sure exactly how that would work, but he’s sure he could be successful if he puts his mind to it. 

“You know,” Riddle says quietly, “I’ve had residents pass out in the OR. I’ve had them lock themselves in on-call rooms and disappear for hours just to avoid going back into the trauma bay.”

Harry exhales, muffled. “Is this your idea of comfort?”

“No,” Riddle says. “It’s my idea of reality. You think I don’t know this is hard on you?”

Harry lifts his arm slightly, just enough to peek out at Riddle. Riddle is staring at him intently, eyes tracking across his expression, and Harry exhales slowly. He sits up, running a hand through his messy hair, and frowns. “I finished at least a third of the water.”

“You finished a sip,” Riddle says dryly. “I watched you throw it out. There are security cameras in the break room.” His gaze sharpens. “And in the bays.”

Harry shoots upright, horrified. “There are what?”

“You think you’re discreet, Potter, but not everything in this hospital flies under my radar,” Riddle says coolly. “Put on your scrubs, you look like you’re homeless.” Harry’s jaw unhinges, and he glances down at his bare chest, suddenly scrambling to wrap one of the thin blankets around himself. “Your break is up. Get moving.”

“I’ll meet you outside,” Harry grumbles, tugging on his pants and hurriedly tying the drawstring, before glancing up in confusion. 

Riddle still hasn’t moved. 

He remains seated, legs crossed at the ankles, utterly unbothered by Harry’s obvious discomfort.

“Do you mind?” Harry snaps, cheeks flushing as he shoves his head through the collar of his oversized scrub top. “Privacy?”

“It’s nothing a doctor hasn’t seen before,” Riddle says, tone maddeningly bland.

“That’s not the point!”

Riddle arches a brow, but finally — mercifully — rises to his feet. He brushes an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve like Harry’s panic has contaminated his precious coat. “Five minutes. Be in bay three.” He digs for something in his pocket and reveals a thin stack of paper dollar bills, shoving them into Harry’s grasp. “Grab a bite to eat on the way there. You look feverish. If you get something without protein, I’ll assign you overnight shifts with Dr. Goyle.”

“But you’re my resident, you can’t do that! Dr. Goyle works in the morgue!” Harry argues, half-tangled up in the sleeves of his scrubs. 

Riddle raises a dark brow. “Did I not two hours ago with Dr. Lockhart?” A smirk graces his mouth. “Maybe spending time around the deceased will help toughen your stomach.” He saunters out the door, unfazed by Harry’s insults — “I’m not your trophy wife! Take back your money!” — spewing through the air. 

“One day, I’m reporting him to HR,” Harry vows lowly to himself and the empty room. “The moment I find someone brave enough to file the paperwork.”

｡⋆ـــﮩ٨ـ‧₊⋆𐙚

“Harry! Fancy seeing you again.”

Ginny tosses Harry a winning smile, beaming as he steps into the elevator, swarmed by attendings demanding updates on Riddle’s whereabouts and surgical schedule. It’s priceless knowledge — and apparently, it makes Harry a diamond in the rough among the other interns.

“What — oh — hey, Ginny! How are you?”

She giggles. “Good. You look a bit busy there.”

Harry attempts a smile as one of the attendings nudges his elbow with a clipboard, but it flickers dangerously as said attending invades Harry’s space a little too closely. “I’m starting to think I’m Riddle’s secretary instead of intern in training.”

Ginny shrugs, flipping a lock of fiery red hair over her shoulder. She’s wearing dark purple scrubs, plum-colored — Harry’s favorite fruit — and shakes her head fondly. “You’re holding up great. It’s admirable. Typically, Riddle’s interns have begged Chief Pomfrey to switch assignments by now.”

“Yeah…I guess I’m holding through…” Harry trails off, vividly recalling his interaction with Chief Pomfrey in the hospital cafeteria a few days ago when he practically had begged to be free from Riddle’s wrath. 

“Sounds like Riddle's really letting you blossom!” Ginny chirps as the elevator doors slide shut, pressing the button for the first floor, and tossing Harry a questioning glance. 

He holds up two fingers. She bows her head in acknowledgment, and the elevator button glows a golden hue with a touch of her finger.

They ride in silence for another floor, and Ginny shifts her weight, tapping her fingers against the side of her thigh. “Riddle can be a prick,” she says finally. “But he’s not a sadist. Not really.”

Harry raises a skeptical brow.

Ginny shrugs. “Okay, he’s a little bit of a sadist. But if he’s pushing you this hard, it’s probably because he sees something. You wouldn’t still be his intern otherwise.” At Harry’s furrowed brows, she lets out a breathy laugh. “Did you not know? Interns aren’t just randomly assigned to residents. The residents pick based on who they think will be the most compatible with them.”

Harry chokes. “Compatible?”

“Correction,” Ginny says, “the intern who they know will promise the most growth in their department. I doubt Riddle picked you because he knows you're a pediatrics nerd and strives to torture you with trauma cases. He knows trauma isn’t where you're headed long-term, but he probably thinks you’ll get some good experience out of it. I mean,” she gives him a side-long glance, “what if one of your kiddos in the pediatric ward comes in with a shattered kneecap? You’ll have first-hand trauma experience to figure out how to dissect that situation.”

“Huh,” Harry says, pressing the back of his head to the cool elevator wall, eyes narrowing with something caught between shock and horror. “I thought I drew the short straw.”

“You are the short straw,” Ginny says cheerfully, nudging him with her elbow. “But apparently, you’re his short straw.” She winks.

“I’m going to throw myself down a stairwell.”

“Don’t,” she says lightly. “The ortho department is full enough as it is. I’m actually headed there to assist with a post-op right now. I think Dr. Clearwater will go bonkers if another gets filled…nonetheless, by an intern.”

The elevator dings softly, and the doors glide open to the second floor. Harry doesn’t move, shoulders tensing at the sight of Dr. Goyle lumbering past in the hallway with a blood-splattered gown slung over one shoulder like a war trophy.

Ginny gently touches his elbow, her expression softening as she steps out into the corridor. “You’re doing better than you think, Harry. Riddle doesn’t waste time on people who can’t keep up.”

Harry’s smile wavers. “Thanks, Ginny.”

The elevator seals shut with a cheerful chime, and Harry exhales slowly, staring at the glowing panel of floor numbers as he ascends to whatever fresh torment bay two has in store for him.

“Compatible,” he mutters bitterly. “Brilliant.”

｡⋆ـــﮩ٨ـ‧₊⋆𐙚

As soon as the clock hits eight o’clock and Harry is officially free from his three-day shift from hell, Hermione is persistently tugging on his arm, practically hauling him through the parking lot, Ron in tow. 

“You have to come with, Harry! C’mon, when’s the last time you drank?” Ron pleads. 

“Don’t ask me that, Ron, I don’t even remember what day it is,” Harry croaks, clutching the strap of his bag as Hermione drags him toward Ron’s beat-up Honda.

“That’s exactly why you need a drink,” Ron says, unlocking the car with a chirp. “I think it’ll be just the thing to cure you.”

Harry lets himself be folded into the backseat, collapsing against the cracked leather as Hermione takes shotgun. “I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours.”

“Well, then, what’s eight more?” Ron suggests. “Besides, I’ve already signed us up for a karaoke session, and you wouldn’t want my money to go to waste, would you, Harry? Luna, Dr. Spout’s intern, and Dr. Chang, from the check-in desk at urgent care, have already taken up my offer to do a trio!”

“I need to go back to the hospital,” Harry mutters, pressing the fifth water bottle of the day Riddle had handed him to his forehead. “I think I left my dignity in the surgical wing.”

“You’re going to need that where we’re going,” Ron says ominously, taking a left turn so aggressive Harry nearly slides into the door.

Harry groans, letting his head fall into his hands and allowing the condensation from the plastic water bottle to calm his brewing headache. After Ron swerves crookedly into a white-lined parking spot and hops out of the car, he and Hermione already crowing about Lady Gaga duets and 2000s club music, Harry finally gives in. He leans over the edge of the vehicle and hurls.

Hermione and Ron cease their celebrations abruptly, turning to gape at Harry, who is clutching the side of the Honda door like it’s his last lifeline. 

“Wow,” Ron says. “You must’ve been holding that in all day.”

“Thirty-six hours, Ron,” Hermione corrects, crouching down to wrap her arms around Harry and help him out of the car, kicking the door shut with her heel. “Okay, new plan,” she says firmly, guiding Harry by the elbow like a crash cart through the parking lot. “We’re getting you some ginger tea and a piece of toast. Karaoke can wait.”

“Uh, I’m not sure they have toast here,” Harry mumbles, covering his mouth so he doesn’t throw up again. “This is a bar, Hermione.”

“Cancel the karaoke?” Ron says, wounded, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his obviously thrifted bomber jacket. “But I already told Luna and Cho we were doing ‘Don’t Stop Believin’! I even practiced the high notes —”

“Ron,” Hermione cuts in, glancing over her shoulder with an arched brow. “Harry just vomited into your car. Do you really think he’s going to be belting Steve Perry tonight?”

“Technically,” Harry groans, voice muffled by the crook of his arm, “I missed the car. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Ron squawks, sprinting back to check the backseat upholstery.

Hermione snorts. “Ignore him. Deep breaths. You’re okay.”

They jostle Harry through the bar doors — one arm slung over Hermione’s shoulder, the other being awkwardly patted by Ron in what Harry assumes is meant to be comforting. The three freeze upon entry, gaping at the scene lying before them.

“Ron,” Harry says, feeling ten times more faint than he did in the car. “When you said, Luna from cardio and Cho from urgent care, I didn’t think you meant the entire fucking hospital.”

Ron, oddly comforting enough, looks as if he’s caught in a similar state of distress. “Word must’ve spread fast, eh?” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his reddening neck. 

Harry’s gaze drifts across the bar, to the filled-up high-tops and the TVs blaring the latest sports game, to where his many colleagues and a few of his bosses are grinding against one another on the dance floor. He glances at a group of St. Mungo’s General doctors who are huddled up in one of the corners, each with some sort of expensive wine or beer in their hand, including Riddle. 

Harry blanches. 

Including Riddle?

“No,” Harry says. “No, no, no. No. Ron, drive me home. I’m getting the hell out of here. This was supposed to be my break. I just clocked out. How is it that I’m seeing my resident not even ten minutes after I left my shift?”

Ron looks genuinely conflicted, glancing between Harry’s paling face and the sea of bobbing heads on the dance floor. “Okay, in my defense,” he begins, voice hushed, “I didn’t invite Riddle. I invited Luna. And Luna probably invited Cho. And Cho definitely invited Dr. Spout. And Dr. Spout loves wine and overshares about literally everything, so I’m guessing —”

“Ron,” Harry cuts in. “Stop talking.”

“Right,” Ron mutters. “Stopping.”

Harry sways on his feet, gripping the edge of a high-top for balance. “How is it that I still smell gauze and iodine when there are tequila shots five feet away?”

Hermione reappears just in time, balancing three waters, a basket of fries, and what looks like a single saltine cracker on a tray. “Found you! I had to awkwardly fumble with the loose coins in my purse for ketchup, so I hope someone here appreciates that.”

“I need to leave,” Harry says immediately, panic rising with each passing second. “He’s here. Riddle’s here. At the bar.”

Hermione blinks. Then calmly sets the tray down. “Well. So much for compartmentalizing.”

Harry’s eyes dart back to where Riddle stands — one hand in his slacks pocket, hair ruffled just enough to be deliberate, his mouth spread in a languid smile that looks far more devilish than it had any right to be. His free hand loosely nursed a glass of something amber-colored, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and by god, Harry hated him. 

He would rather have a bald resident than a handsome one, he notes, a tad hysterically. 

And then they make eye contact.

Harry nearly levitates out of his skin.

“Oh god,” Harry whispers in horror, frantically shaking Hermione’s shoulders, who bats him away and chomps on another waffle fry. “He saw me. He saw me, Hermione.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know it’s you,” Ron suggests. “You’re not in your scrubs, after all. Many may argue that some people working at the hospital look completely different outside of their workplace uniform.” His gaze flicks to Hermione, and he clears his throat multiple times in a row. 

“I think I’m going to be sick again,” Harry says, turning toward the restroom, but Hermione grabs his arm.

“Or…” Hermione begins. “You can sit down at this high-top with us, eat some waffle fries, drink some beer, pretend like Riddle isn’t burning holes into your soul — oh my gosh, he looks like he’s eye fucking Harry, don’t you think, Ron? — and listen to some horrible karaoke.”

“Or,” Harry whispers, “I could crawl into the bar bathroom and live there until sunrise.”

Hermione gently spins him back around. “He’s coming this way. Don’t panic.”

Harry immediately panics. “What?”

The once upbeat chatter bouncing between his two friends suddenly fades into nothingness, giving Harry all the warning signals he needs. At least a thousand alarm bells are ringing in his head, sirens of all shapes and sizes going off at different volumes, until he knows without even turning that Riddle is standing directly behind him. 

“Dr. Potter,” Riddle says. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Harry nearly chokes on the saltine. “I — I live here,” he blurts out.

Ron drops a fry.

“You live. At the bar.” Riddle’s voice is unreadable, but Harry swears he hears something dangerously close to amusement tugging at the edges.

“I meant metaphorically,” Harry wheezes. “Spiritually. I mean. God. Sorry. I haven’t slept in —”

“Thirty-six hours,” Hermione supplies brightly. “But don’t worry, we’re working on fixing that with a handful of waffle fries, a few glasses of beer, and some karaoke.”

There’s a flicker of something like a smirk on Riddle’s face, but it doesn’t fully bloom. His eyes are sharp as ever, flicking from Harry’s glass of untouched water to the fading circles beneath his eyes. “Drink some water while you’re at it,” Riddle says, but he doesn’t say it like a suggestion. He reaches over and slides the water toward Harry, who stares at it like it’s poisoned.

“You’re off-duty,” Harry mutters.

“Am I?” Riddle counters, and the way his mouth curls on the last syllable makes Harry feel like he’s being peeled apart molecule by molecule. “I’m fairly certain medical instincts don’t clock out.”

“Well, mine are buried under a mug of stolen pumpkin spice cold brew and four bites of a saltine, so if you’ll excuse me —”

“Harry,” Riddle cuts in, voice low, “you’re not being punished. I’m not going to cut your pay for choosing to spend your time at a bar after your shift. Fun is not a betrayal of your commitment to the field. Take a breath, Potter. You're allowed to exist outside the hospital.” With a tilt of his glass, a mock of a toast, Riddle disappears back into the crowd, probably to chat about big words Harry doesn’t understand, like thoracotomies and laparotomies. 

Harry stares at his retreating figure, mouth ajar.

Ron clears his throat. “Well,” he says, “that was not disturbing at all.”

Hermione kicks his shin from underneath the table. 

｡⋆ـــﮩ٨ـ‧₊⋆𐙚

Later, when Harry has consumed more alcohol than he thought was humanly possible, devoured nearly three baskets of waffle fries, and is forcibly removed from the dance floor by Hermione for a quick neurology check by Dr. Trelawney (who is, for some reason, showing off her collection of crystal glass balls to Cho), he finally collapses into the back of a cab, sandwiched between Hermione and Ron.

Ron is bellowing some sort of Irish song that he claims his late grandfather taught him as a toddler, while Hermione hisses curses with her hands clamped over her ears — leaving Harry to feel oddly content.
This small group of interns, Ron and Hermione, feels like a family.

A lovely, sweet family who steals his homemade pumpkin spice cold brews and tackles him to force him into bar karaoke.

It’s fine. Whatever.

It’s not like he’ll remember anything in the morning.