A/N:

dedicated to Rocio, who prompted this lovely story and its ending! disclaimer: i have no idea about anything medical. i haven't even watched grey's anatomy

Tags: Alternate Universe, Healer Harry Potter, St Mungo's Hospital, Mystery, Murder, Romance, Ambiguous/Open Ending

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After Hours

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Chapter One: Get Well Soon

The most jarring thing about working at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was how quickly the mood could change.

Most of the time, the atmosphere was calm, quiet. No one dared say it aloud, but when the halls were empty of emergency patients, each and every floor felt tired, almost miserable. The air would reek of the sick and dying, even in the reception area.

Some of the interns jokingly referred to St Mungo's as a second Azkaban, a label that Harry went out of his way to dissuade and disparage whenever possible. But there was, sadly, some truth to it.

Rarely were there willing visitors who lasted longer than it took for their loved ones to heal and depart. They did have magic to thank for that. With time and talent, magic could cure almost anything. Almost everything.

Neville, of course, frequently came to visit his parents, the unfortunate victims of a tragic Auror incident that had occurred shortly after he was born. Before her passing, his grandmother, Augusta, had used to accompany him.

Without her, Neville seemed to shrink in on himself more, his shoulders hunched under the bright, artificial lights that Hermione had petitioned for as part of a 'modern' overhaul of the hospital facilities.

Harry had the feeling that Neville would soon reduce his visiting hours. It could not possibly be healthy to sit in this cheerless place for hours on end, talking to those who could not respond.

Or perhaps that was his own cynicism talking.

That said, there were good things about working as a Healer at St Mungo's. Harry liked most of his coworkers, and he had his favourites amongst the long-term patients.

There was Lavender Brown, who came in for her monthly lycanthropy treatments. Harry admired her bubbly, positive attitude. Though the second floor was not the happiest place, dedicated as it was to treating magical ailments and diseases, Lavender's presence brightened the dull space considerably. Her smile gave people hope.

There was Gilderoy Lockhart, who had arguably been Harry's least favourite defence professor ever. Amnesia had improved him, however. Without a history of fraudulent activity to bolster his enormous ego, Lockhart was quite the comedian. He knew how to spin a great story, at any rate, and was a frequent source of entertainment for the other residents of the Janus Thickey Ward.

And there were others who came and went, temporary patients turned friends. Harry had an entire wall in his office dedicated to the thank-you cards he had received over the years. Ernie said it was an eyesore, but Harry thought that the mishmash of cardstock had personality.

Seeing all those cards, especially on days where everything went wrong, reminded him that his job was a good thing. He helped people.

Harry was treating Seamus Finnigan's latest third-degree magical burns when Hepzibah Smith was rushed into St Mungo's. She was quickly sent to the third floor for accidental potion consumption. Her house-elf was senile, according to the hysterical neighbour that had brought her in. The poor thing had probably given her mistress the wrong potion by mistake.

Harry administered an antidote to Mrs Smith and asked her to stay overnight in case there were any further side effects. She was ancient and cranky throughout the consultation, but she did agree after he informed her she would get her own room, and that there would be evening staff on.

He felt a little bad about that, throwing the night shift to the horrid whims of this undoubtedly particular woman, but they'd dealt with worse before. Mrs Smith definitely needed to be kept overnight for observation, so there wasn't anything he could do about that.

He did resolve to come in early the next morning, just in case Romilda snapped because Mrs Smith asking for 'omelettes without too much egg in them' was the last straw. Merlin forbid if Romilda decided it was time to quit and—

"Find a fucking job that doesn't make me want to fucking scoop people's fucking brains out with a fucking tongue depressor just to make sure they actually fucking have one and it's not a giant fucking ball of pink fucking yarn in- fucking -stead!"

Thankfully, her bedside manner was much better, and contained far less profanity, than her staff room commentary.

Harry really didn't want her to go. She was the best at handling the unruly patients who thought they were smarter than the Healers treating them. Most people were not smarter than Healers, and Romilda had no qualms rubbing it in their faces when they attempted to screw up their own care.

So the next morning, he went in early.

The institute of St Mungo's was resting at a lovely midpoint between calm and calamity when Harry stumbled through the front doors for his shift and nearly collided with someone who was holding an enormous bouquet of flowers.

"Sorry," Harry said, trying to right himself. Then the pollen reached his nose and made him sneeze. The sheer volume of pollen in his immediate vicinity made the sneeze larger and louder than normal, which resulted in further upsetting his balance, knocking him into the outstretched arm of the flower-bearing stranger.

"Easy," said the man. His voice was a low, amused thing, as if Harry was a mildly entertaining show on the telly instead of a purported professional. His arm was steady as a rock underneath Harry's splayed hand.

"Sorry," Harry repeated, finally pulling himself together. He reared back and straightened his glasses on his face so he could take in his victim—ha ha—clearly.

"No trouble." The man smiled, flashing two neat rows of white teeth, and Harry was momentarily distracted by how perfect they were.

"Did you get braces as a child?" Harry blurted out. Wizards didn't have them, a fact which appalled Hermione to no end. Apparently the magical solution to having poorly-aligned teeth was to simply change the size of the offending teeth until they all fit.

Which this man had clearly not done. Which meant he either had ridiculously perfect teeth in addition to what Harry was now recognizing as a ridiculously handsome face, or—

"Braces," repeated the man, the corner of his mouth quirking. Was that a smile or a frown? His expression was so unbothered that it was impossible to tell.

"My best friend's parents are dentists," Harry said awkwardly by way of explanation. "Er, can I help you with something? Are you here to see someone?" He nodded towards the flowers.

"You could say that."

There! That was definitely a smile. Harry smiled back. "Do you have a name?"

A pause, and then: "Tom Riddle."

Harry mentally ran through his patient register. "I don't think I've seen a Tom or a Riddle recently, sorry. You can try reception?"

"My name is Tom," said the man. "Riddle," he added, the amused tone returning as he ran curious eyes over Harry's face. "And you're a Healer here."

Harry nodded. "Right. Sorry. Yes. I am." He gave himself a bit of a shake. "You can talk with reception. I really should be going before my assistant Healer murders my patient. I mean—" He broke off, flustered. "Never mind. Go to reception."

Tom walked off with his colourful, flower-filled pot. Harry spent a brief second wondering who would be getting them—a wife or girlfriend, probably—before someone shouted his name and he was dashing off to the second floor.

Harry did not manage to check on Mrs Smith until thirty minutes later. This was still an hour earlier than it would have been had he arrived at his usual time, so he wasn't too worried as he entered the third floor.

Making his way down the corridor, he heard the odd whine or groan as he passed by the various rooms. Some of the sounds were not from the patients, but the occasional squeak of a Healer's shoe on the recently-waxed floors.

As Harry approached Mrs Smith's room, a strange noise met his ears. It sounded like a faint moan, and then a soft thud, as if someone had fallen. Fearing the worst, he threw open the door and rushed in.

The first thing he saw was the empty breakfast tray upturned on the floor—used, crumpled napkins were scattered across the tile and an empty plastic cup had rolled underneath the bed.

The second thing he saw was Mrs Smith's pale, motionless body. A trail of crumbs lay sprinkled across her sheet-clad lower half, and some pink colour was smeared across her purple, bloated mouth.

Harry flew to her side in a panic. No breathing, no heartbeat. He began casting spells, trying to save her, trying to determine what had gone so horrifically wrong, but it was too late.

She was dead.

In her hand, half eaten, was a golden biscuit covered in pink frosting with white icing on top that read 'Get Well Soon!'.

The official cause of death was deemed to be heart failure. According to Hannah, it was the potion that had been originally identified in Hepzibah Smith's system that had caused the fatal reaction. The potion that Harry had administered an antidote for not twelve hours earlier.

"It's not your fault," Romilda told him. "The moulding body of that crabby old bat probably turned its snobby nose up at the antidote."

Harry grimaced. "I know it's not."

It happened, sometimes, with older folks whose bodies were not as resilient or receptive to magical treatments. In this case, the potion must have gotten to Hepzibah before the antidote could finish its work. With antidotes that were slower to work, it was often impossible to tell whether the potion had been wholly purged until the dosage had run its course.

There was a very high chance that even if Harry had anticipated this problem and administered a larger dosage, the higher concentration of antidote would have overloaded her fragile system and killed her anyway.

Knowing that did not stop Harry from feeling responsible for Hepzibah's death, and it certainly did not stop him from feeling bad about it. He'd been given the rest of the day off. The bleak backdrop of constant magical decay and deterioration was bad enough without stacking unbearable guilt on top of it.

But even now, hours after Hepzibah Smith had been handed off to the coroners, Harry was still at the hospital, sulking miserably in the staff room. The only reason no one had kicked him out yet was because they were all too busy.

Romilda eyed him for a moment, lips pursed in a frown. "Why don't you go clean up the room?" she suggested.

"Sure," Harry said. Anything to feel useful. He could concede that Romilda was right. Keeping busy would help him feel better.

He went back to the third floor. Ernie shot him a dark look in the hall when their gazes met, but his expression relaxed considerably when he saw that Harry had ditched his Healer's robes.

Harry entered Mrs Smith's empty room and examined the mess. He vanished the tray, the dishes, and the cutlery. He vanished the empty cup that had rolled under the bed, and then he opened the window in a desperate attempt to clear some of the stuffy air.

With a wave of his wand, the rumpled bed sheets sorted themselves out. The pillow fluffed itself to plumpness, and then the entire bed was thoroughly sterilized with several cleaning charms.

Harry glanced around the room, wondering if he had missed anything. He did feel like something was missing. But what?

After a few minutes of thinking, he gave up. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically. He was imagining things. The best thing to do would be to go home and take a nap. Try to forget about today.

He would come back here tomorrow and lose himself in his work, and by the time the weekend arrived, the unfortunate fact of Hepzibah Smith's death would be numbed by the passage of time.

Harry left the room and marked it as clean on the clipboard pinned to the door. On his way to the stairs, he ran into Nott, who was covered in flower petals.

"Herbology accident," Nott said in response to Harry's questioning glance. "Someone's coughing them up by the hundreds." He waved an irritated hand around his head, vanishing some of the worst offenders clinging to his hair.

"That sucks," Harry said lamely. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a trail of pink and red scattered across the floor, but it seemed that the petals, however they had come into existence, were very good at sticking to their unfortunate victims.

"Very much." Nott said. He sounded almost bored. "Headed home?"

Seeing the flower petals had reminded Harry of something. "Yeah," Harry began slowly, "in a moment. There was… this visitor who came in today, he had this giant thing full of flowers? Did you see them?"

Nott stared at him, face impassive, waiting for Harry to get to the point.

"Well, uh, I was just wondering where they went. Curious, you know?" Harry attempted a casual laugh. He was fairly sure he failed, though, because Nott was looking at him like he was an idiot.

"Hannah told me there was a bouquet delivered to the paediatric ward," Nott finally said. "Is that what you mean?"

"The paediatric ward?" Harry repeated. "Where the kids are?"

"Yes," Nott said with another flat stare. "Where the kids are."

Harry forced himself to nod. "Um, did he happen to mention why he was there? The man?"

Nott sighed. "Go home, Potter. I know you feel bad, but accusing random blokes of secretly slaughtering elderly witches isn't the solution."

Harry's jaw slackened. "I'm not—" He spluttered. "That's not what this is!"

While it was true he had a habit of sticking his nose where it did not belong, it was not his fault. Ron was an Auror, after all, and he constantly roped Harry in for 'Healer expertise' whenever he had an excuse to do so.

Nott's brow lifted in incredulity. "Then what is it?"

The truth was not much better, now that Harry thought about it. "Fine," he said reluctantly. "I'll go home."

Nott made a show of rolling his eyes. "See you tomorrow, then."

"See you tomorrow," Harry echoed.

Harry did not see Tom Riddle again until several weeks later. He had almost forgotten about the handsome, flower-bearing stranger, but was quickly reminded of his infatuation when the man passed through the front double doors, arms laden with several boxes of chocolate.

"Visiting again?" Harry asked as he approached, trying to sound casual about it.

Tom's smile seemed genuine as he said, "You could say that."

Harry fell into step with him and glanced at the topmost box. These were all from Honeydukes. "Do you need help with carrying them?"

"I'm fine, thank you." Tom's pace slowed enough that Harry was forced to slow to match him. "This top one is for you, actually."

The box was small and heart-shaped. It floated off the top of the pile and came to a hovering halt in front of Harry.

"Thanks," Harry stuttered. "You really didn't have to." This was just politeness, surely. Tom was just being nice. People did that, sometimes. They came in with little gifts for the staff.

"My pleasure." Tom readjusted his grip on the remaining boxed. "If you'll excuse me—"

"Oh, of course." Harry nodded quickly and took a step to the side.

Tom wandered off to the lift. Was he going back to the children's ward? Harry made a note to ask Padma later. She wasn't the biggest gossip, but if he gave in and offered something in return—namely, a hint at his personal interest in Tom—maybe she'd take pity.

Harry rubbed at his face. Merlin. He needed a nap. But first, he had to get through the first half of his shift. With a sigh, Harry headed to the staff room to change his clothes and leave the box of chocolates in his locker. He had a full schedule of appointments today, which meant it was going to be a long day.

Lunch was a bottle of Gillywater and a sandwich from the cafeteria. Harry planned to eat as quickly as possible so the rest of his break could be spent curled on the futon, napping.

Then Ernie came bursting into the staff room, a stricken expression on his face. Harry dropped his sandwich onto the table and was out of his seat before Ernie even began speaking.

"Harry! I've been all over looking for you," Ernie said, rubbing the left side of his face with a tired hand. "It's Hannah. Her patient—" He winced. "Passed. Just now. She's a bit... distraught. It wasn't a pretty one."

"Where?" Harry demanded.

"Fifth floor," Ernie said, looking rather green now. "But Harry—"

Harry was already on his way out the door.

"I don't understand what happened," Hannah said miserably, her face in her hands. "Lewis and I looked over everything, there shouldn't have been any issues!"

It was standard procedure for patients entered due to dark curses to be stripped and quarantined until they were sure that the patient was no longer in contact with any cursed objects. Sometimes the trickier curses liked to jump around, which was why containment procedures were extremely important.

Harry had spent the past hour and a half working with Bill Weasley to sanitize the quarantine room where Hannah's patient had passed. They'd cleared up not only the gore—poor Pius Thicknesse had gotten all of his major organs exploded—but the dark magic residue as well.

"Thicknesse was a bastard anyway," Romilda said in a comforting voice. "It really isn't a loss."

Hannah made another loud noise of distress. She mopped at her eyes with a tissue, then blew her nose into it.

"Romlida," Harry said, "maybe not the right time for that." Seeing a man explode was not a common occurrence, even amongst experienced Healers.

Romilda sniffed. "I suppose. But as far as I'm concerned, humanity is better off—"

Harry glared at her, cutting her off. "Hannah, here I've got some chocolate, why don't you have a piece? You'll feel better." He offered out the heart-shaped box he'd retrieved for this purpose. "I promise."

After a moment of rubbing at her eyes and sniffling, Hannah accepted a piece of chocolate. "Thanks, Harry," she mumbled. "Where'd you get these from?"

"There's this weird bloke that Harry fancies. He keeps coming in with gifts for the patients," Romilda answered without missing a beat.

Hannah looked at the open box of chocolates with a thoughtful expression on her face. "He gave these to you? That's so sweet."

"I bet he's just one of those freaks who gets off on the charity," Romilda said, plucking an oval-shaped chocolate out of the box and placing it into her mouth. She chewed, then swallowed, then said, "Hmm. He's got good taste, at least. Maybe it's alright if he gets off to Harry, too."

Harry glared at her again. Romilda grinned back at him in response.

Over the next few months, Tom visited sporadically.

Contrary to what Romilda had hypothesized, Harry did not think Tom enjoyed his visits to St Mungo's. Oh, he pretended he did, but when no one was watching him, there was an odd edge to the way he held himself. Stiffness in his arms, stillness in his shoulders.

No one liked visiting hospitals, though. So this was normal, almost expected behaviour. The dangerous part was how quickly that edge melted away whenever Tom ran into him. Like seeing Harry had made the dreary trip worthwhile.

Harry's friends kept telling him to make a move and ask Tom out. They kept insisting that Tom wouldn't be visiting so often with gifts if he wasn't interested.

Tom might have been interested. There were certainly some signs that he was interested in Harry, during the few minutes they would share together before Harry was inevitably called away by some emergency or another.

But that was part of the problem.

Who would want a relationship with a Healer? Harry's hours were shit, his level of self-care was abysmal, and the constant lack of sleep meant he was cranky more often than not. He wasn't relationship material.

Harry was better off just enjoying what they had, which was the occasional flirt or witty quip. He was better off gathering little tidbits of Tom's life and using those tidbits as fuel for imaginative fantasies that would never come to pass.

After graduating Hogwarts, Tom had worked at Borgin and Burkes for a few years before leaving to start his own business. A business that specialized in a similar market—the acquisition and sales of rare artifacts. Harry had surmised it was lucrative based on the fine cut of Tom's robes and the copious donations the man continued making to the hospital.

"It is the least I can do," Tom said, his warm hand pressing delicately down on Harry's shoulder. "Especially with the bad press lately."

Bathilda Bagshot's death had been in the papers just last month. People were calling into question the competence of the Aurors involved in the investigation and the staff at St Mungo's for failing to save her. Harry hated the finger pointing. People made mistakes all the time, and they were doing their best here at the hospital. All they could do was make sure it did not happen again.

"Yeah, it's pretty awful." Harry sighed. He worked at a hospital. Deaths were an inevitability. It was just bad luck that there had been so many unfortunate ones lately.

"The papers never mentioned the Healers assigned to her care," Tom said after a moment, "but I would hope that you would not be so foolish as to blame yourself for what happened."

"I know," Harry said. "I don't."

"Good." Tom smiled at him. "I'd hate to see my favourite Healer plagued with self doubt." Then he turned around and left.

Harry played those words in his head over and over for the rest of the day like the idiot he was.

My favourite Healer.

Yeah, he was a goner.