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Harry Potter’s clinic wasn’t perfect, but it was his, and that made all the difference.
Located on the quieter edge of Southwark, sandwiched between a laundrette and a corner shop with a perpetually flickering neon sign, the clinic had become a small haven for the community. Outside, the building was unassuming—red bricks weathered by years of city soot and rain, with a simple sign reading Southwark Health & Wellness Centre . A bright flower box sat beneath the single window by the entrance, spilling over with pansies and marigolds planted by a local mother as thanks for treating her little boy.
Inside, the space was clean but lived-in. The walls were painted a soft yellow, chosen by Harry himself to brighten the narrow corridors and small waiting area. He’d been told by an interior designer friend that yellow was a “happy colour,” though the exact shade was now dulled by age and a few scuff marks from rowdy children’s shoes. The floors were polished linoleum, easy to clean and resilient against muddy footprints on rainy days.
The waiting area was small but cosy, with mismatched chairs salvaged from charity shops and a low table scattered with dog-eared magazines and a stack of children’s books. A toy box sat in one corner, stuffed with blocks, a few action figures, and a single plush dragon missing one eye. A bulletin board on the wall was crowded with flyers for community events—yoga classes, lost pet notices, and handwritten advertisements for odd jobs—and the occasional thank-you note from grateful patients.
The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, but Harry had taken care to soften it with a small diffuser tucked on the reception desk. Lavender and citrus mingled just enough to take the edge off the clinical sterility.
Harry himself had been here since eight that morning, the hours passing in a steady rhythm of appointments. A sprained ankle, a toddler with an earache, and an elderly man complaining about back pain—all manageable, predictable cases. He liked the routine of it, the sense that he was doing something tangible, something good.
By three in the afternoon, the waiting room was empty save for a teenage boy slumped in a chair, glued to his phone, waiting for his mother’s consultation to finish. Harry was updating a chart when the front door’s chime rang out, sharper than usual in the quiet space.
He looked up, expecting another regular—someone he recognised from the neighbourhood. Instead, a young man stepped in, and the atmosphere seemed to shift ever so slightly.
Harry’s first thought was that the man didn’t belong here—not in the way the rest of his patients did. Where most people walked in harried and slightly rumpled, this man looked composed, deliberate. His clothes were simple but well-fitted: a crisp button-down tucked into dark trousers, his shoes polished to a soft gleam. His black hair was neatly combed, his posture straight, and his dark eyes surveyed the room with calm detachment.
In one hand, he cradled the other wrist, his fingers curled protectively around it.
“Can I help you?” Harry asked, setting aside the clipboard and rising to his feet.
The man’s gaze shifted to him, sharp and assessing. “I think I’ve injured my wrist.”
Harry nodded toward the small exam area separated by a modest curtain. “Come on in. Let’s take a look.”
The man moved across the room with a grace that seemed almost incongruous with his injury, sitting on the exam table with no wasted motion. Harry pulled a stool over, gesturing for the injured wrist.
“What happened?” he asked as he carefully took the man’s arm.
“I slipped on some stairs,” the man replied, his tone clipped and precise.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Slipped on stairs, or fell off them?”
The man’s lips quirked in what might have been amusement. “Does it matter?”
“Well,” Harry said, lightly pressing along the wrist to feel for fractures, “it tells me how hard you hit the ground. Let me know if anything hurts.”
The man didn’t so much as flinch, though Harry could feel the faint swelling under his fingers. His composure was unnerving—most people winced at least once during an exam like this.
“It’s a mild sprain,” Harry concluded after a moment. “You’re lucky—nothing’s broken. I’ll wrap it up, but you’ll need to take it easy for a few days. No heavy lifting, no sudden movements.”
The man inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging the verdict.
“What’s your name?” Harry asked as he reached for the bandages.
“Tom Riddle,” the man said, his voice low but even.
“Nice to meet you, Tom,” Harry said, wrapping the wrist with practiced efficiency. He worked quickly, but he couldn’t ignore the way Tom’s gaze lingered on him—not on the bandaging, but on his face, his hands. It wasn’t unusual for patients to watch him work, but Tom’s scrutiny felt sharper, almost calculated.
Tom's eyes lingered on Harry’s face a little longer than necessary, but Harry didn’t think much of it. It wasn’t the first time a patient had studied him while he worked, though there was something about Tom’s gaze that was sharper, more intense. He finished bandaging Tom’s wrist with methodical precision and stepped back, glancing up only when Tom finally spoke.
“Is this your clinic?” Tom asked, his voice low and steady.
Harry looked up in surprise, trying to gauge the tone of his words. “It is. Opened it about three years ago.”
“Why here?” Tom’s question was soft but curious, as though Harry’s decision to settle in Southwark wasn’t something he’d expected to hear.
Harry shrugged. “Why not? People around here need decent healthcare. It’s not fancy, but it’s practical.”
Tom tilted his head, his gaze flicking to the modest surroundings, then back to Harry. “Practical,” he repeated, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips.
Harry finished securing the bandage and moved to straighten up. "That should do it. Keep it wrapped for a few days, and if it’s not better in a week, come back."
Tom slid off the exam table with a fluid motion, adjusting his cuff with careful precision to hide the bandage. Harry made a note of it—his patient seemed meticulous, but then again, many were.
“Thank you, Doctor Potter,” Tom said, his eyes locking onto Harry’s for a moment longer than what was customary. Harry blinked, not quite sure what to make of it.
“You’re welcome,” Harry replied, his voice betraying a slight tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding onto.
As Tom reached for the door, Harry cleared his throat and looked down at his clipboard. “Ah, I just need to confirm your age for the log, Tom.”
Tom paused, just a fraction of a second, then gave a slight nod. “Nineteen,” he replied, his gaze unwavering.
“Nineteen,” Harry repeated, jotting it down quickly on his clipboard. “Thanks.”
Tom turned back toward him before leaving, his voice smooth as silk. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As the door chime rang behind him, Harry stood still for a moment, unsure of why the air in the room had suddenly felt heavier. He glanced at the nametag on his coat, which read "Dr. Potter" in neat block letters. Of course, Tom had seen that—how else would he know his name? But there was something about the way Tom had said it, so deliberate, like he’d been considering it before speaking.
Shaking off the unease, Harry took a deep breath. Just another patient, he reminded himself. Nothing more.
Tom Riddle had never been one to rely on chance. In his nineteen years, he’d learned that careful planning and deliberate action yielded far better results than leaving anything up to fate. And yet, fate—or something like it—had handed him Doctor Potter.
Doctor Potter.
The name still lingered in his mind, as though repeating it might conjure the man back into the room. Tom flexed his newly wrapped wrist, testing the slight give of the bandage. It wasn’t the first injury he’d sustained, nor would it be the last, but it was the first time the experience had been so... memorable.
Tom wasn’t prone to distractions, and yet, Harry Potter had managed to capture his full attention within minutes of their meeting.
It wasn’t just his looks, though those were impossible to ignore. The tousled black hair, sharp green eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses, the faint shadow of stubble that softened his otherwise chiseled jaw—all of it combined into something effortlessly magnetic. But it wasn’t just that. There had been something steady about him, a kind of grounded confidence that Tom found both irritating and enthralling.
He shouldn’t have found it enthralling.
Tom prided himself on being in control of his thoughts and feelings, but Harry’s calm presence had unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite define. Every touch of Harry’s fingers against his wrist, every casual quip or soft chuckle, had etched itself into Tom’s memory.
And then there was the way Harry had looked at him—not as if he were something to be scrutinised, as so many others did, but as if he were simply another person in need of help. It was... unexpected.
Unexpected and fascinating.
Tom stopped walking as the thought took hold, glancing down at his wrapped wrist. He hadn’t meant to end up here in the first place. His fall on the stairs had been a rare misstep—entirely accidental and entirely inconvenient. Or so he’d thought.
Now, he wasn’t so sure.
He could still hear Harry’s voice in his mind, calm and steady as he explained the injury. “It’s a mild sprain. Nothing’s broken. You’ll need to keep it wrapped and rest it for a few days.” There had been a quiet authority in those words, a certainty that left no room for doubt.
Tom’s lips curved into a faint smile. Authority he could respect. Intelligence, he could admire. And handsomeness? Well, that was just a bonus.
He resumed walking, the bustle of the Southwark streets buzzing faintly in the background. For once, he wasn’t thinking about his usual plans or pursuits. His thoughts were singular, focused.
He needed to see Harry Potter again.
The obvious solution was to wait a week and return for a follow-up, as instructed. But the thought of waiting an entire week was intolerable. Tom wanted a reason—no, a pretext—to return sooner.
I could feign a complication, he mused, dismissing the idea almost as quickly as it came. Too transparent. Harry didn’t strike him as gullible, and Tom disliked the idea of being seen as a liar.
No, he needed something better. Something... authentic.
A minor injury wouldn’t be difficult to arrange. A misstep here, a slip there. He’d endured worse for less rewarding outcomes. If he timed it right, he could be back at the clinic in a matter of days, the excuse ready-made.
Tom’s fingers brushed over the bandage as he considered his options. A sprained ankle? A shallow cut? Something painful enough to warrant attention but not severe enough to raise suspicion.
The plan began to take shape, and for the first time in a long while, Tom felt a flicker of genuine anticipation. He wasn’t accustomed to chasing after anyone or anything, but Doctor Potter might just be worth it.
As he turned onto his street, Tom’s steps slowed. The familiar façade of his building came into view, but his mind was elsewhere, still replaying the moment Harry had looked up from his chart, his green eyes meeting Tom’s with quiet curiosity.
“Nice to meet you, Tom,” Harry had said, the words plain but warm.
Tom smirked to himself. The pleasure was entirely mine, Doctor Potter.
By the time he reached his door, the decision was made. He would see Harry again, and when he did, he would make sure it wasn’t their last meeting.
Some risks, Tom thought as he stepped inside, are worth taking.
The Southwark Health & Wellness Centre was a sanctuary of subdued busyness. The muted hum of a distant printer blended with the occasional rustle of papers or the faint scrape of chairs against the linoleum floor.
A large ficus plant sat by the reception desk, its leaves glossy under the warm light of hanging fixtures. The plant was fake, Harry knew, but he’d caught Luna misting it with water on more than one occasion, a little private ritual that always made him smile.
The clinic, though modest, had a certain charm. It was utilitarian but welcoming, with a subtle warmth that came from the people who worked there. Patients rarely stayed long, but Harry liked to think they left feeling better, not just physically but in spirit.
Today was quiet—a rarity—and Harry had settled into the rhythm of catching up on charts in his small, somewhat cluttered office. A soft knock on the doorframe broke his focus.
“Doctor Potter?” Luna’s voice was as calm as it always was. “There’s a walk-in—a young man who says he’s injured his ankle.”
Harry set his pen down, stretching briefly before rising. “Thanks, Luna. I’ll take it.”
The walk from his office to the exam room was a short one, but Harry’s thoughts lingered on the unexpected visitor. Injuries like sprains weren’t uncommon, but something about the timing struck him as odd.
When he stepped into the room, he stopped short, his eyes landing on the familiar figure perched on the exam table.
“Mr Riddle,” Harry said, his voice coloured with surprise. He crossed his arms, arching a brow. “Twice in one week—are we making this a habit?”
Tom Riddle looked up, his posture impeccable, his dark eyes as sharp and piercing as Harry remembered. His lips curled into the faintest smile, a hint of amusement flickering in his expression.
“Doctor Potter,” Tom replied smoothly, his tone polite but laced with something that felt almost playful. “It would seem I have an unfortunate knack for injuries.”
Harry stepped closer, his gaze dropping to Tom’s ankle, which was slightly swollen. “What happened this time?”
“A misstep on the stairs,” Tom said, his words delivered with the same calm precision that Harry had found so striking during their first encounter. “Nothing dramatic, I’m afraid.”
Harry crouched down, rolling up his sleeves before gently taking Tom’s foot in his hands. His fingers moved with practiced care, probing the tender area around the swelling. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, his tone light but professional.
He could feel Tom watching him. That gaze—intense, unwavering—was impossible to ignore. It was as though Tom were studying him, not just as a doctor but as a person, cataloguing every movement, every detail.
“Does this hurt?” Harry asked, pressing lightly against the ankle.
“Not much,” Tom replied, though there was a slight tension in his voice that betrayed him.
Harry glanced up, catching the flicker of something in Tom’s expression. Pain, perhaps, or something else entirely. It was hard to tell with someone as guarded as Tom Riddle seemed to be.
“It’s a mild sprain,” Harry said after a moment, standing up. “No fractures. You’ll need to keep it elevated and avoid putting weight on it for a few days.”
“Efficient as always,” Tom remarked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Harry let out a soft laugh as he began wrapping the ankle. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Tom tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. “It was meant as one.”
The air between them shifted, just slightly, and Harry found himself acutely aware of the quiet in the room—the muffled sounds of the clinic fading into the background as he focused on securing the bandage.
“You know,” Harry said, glancing up briefly, “you’ve got to be more careful. At this rate, I’ll start thinking you enjoy coming here.”
Tom’s lips curved into a slow, enigmatic smile. “Perhaps I do.”
Harry paused, his hands stilling for just a fraction of a second before he resumed his work. The words were innocuous enough, but the way Tom said them left Harry with the distinct impression that there was more to them than met the eye.
“There,” Harry said, finishing the wrap with a practiced flourish. “Good as new—or close enough. Try to stay out of trouble this time, Mr Riddle.”
“I’ll do my best,” Tom replied, though the glint in his eye suggested otherwise.
As Harry helped him off the table, he couldn’t shake the sense of déjà vu. Tom’s presence was... unsettling, but not in an unpleasant way. It was as though he carried an invisible weight, a gravity that drew attention without demanding it.
“Take care of yourself,” Harry said, his tone lighter as he held the door open.
Tom nodded, his gaze lingering on Harry for just a moment longer than necessary. “Until next time, Doctor Potter.”
Harry watched as Tom left, his stride careful but steady. Something about the encounter lingered, nagging at the edges of Harry’s thoughts.
He told himself it was just coincidence. Injuries happened, and patients returned.
But as he stood by the window, watching Tom disappear into the busy street, Harry couldn’t escape that nagging voice in the back of his head.
Harry remained by the window for longer than he meant to, the cool pane pressed lightly against his fingertips. Outside, the street was alive with the ordinary chaos of the city: a cyclist weaving through slow-moving cars, a street vendor closing up his stall, a mother corralling two chattering children.
And among them, walking with a deliberate grace that belied his claimed injury, was Tom Riddle.
Harry watched until the dark-haired young man turned a corner and disappeared from view. Only then did he pull back, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
Shaking his head, he returned to the exam room to tidy up. The familiar routine—the crinkle of disposable gloves, the snap of a disinfectant wipe—should have grounded him. But his thoughts kept drifting.
It wasn’t unusual for patients to come back—illnesses recurred, injuries happened—but two visits in such a short span felt... peculiar.
Especially when the patient was someone like Tom Riddle.
Harry frowned as he rolled the used bandages into a neat bundle. Tom wasn’t like most of the people who walked through the clinic’s doors. There was a precision to him, a meticulousness that extended from the way he spoke to the way he carried himself. Even sitting on an exam table, in an undoubtedly vulnerable position, Tom had exuded a kind of quiet authority.
Most patients rambled when they were nervous or in pain. Tom had been composed, answering questions with just enough detail to be plausible but not enough to feel personal.
Harry sighed, tossing the bandages into the bin. “Stop overthinking,” he muttered to himself.
The clinic wasn’t a place for mysteries. It was a place for healing, for mundane problems with straightforward solutions. He didn’t have time to be intrigued by sharp cheekbones and piercing eyes—or the way Tom’s faint smirk had lingered in his mind like an echo.
He finished cleaning the room and made his way back to his office, determined to drown himself in paperwork until the strange undercurrent of the day faded.
Yet even as he flipped through patient charts, the questions lingered. What was it about Tom Riddle that felt so... calculated?
And why, despite himself, did Harry find it fascinating?
Tom’s presence lingered in the clinic longer than Harry anticipated. The exam room felt quieter, as though the walls were still holding the weight of his calm, collected voice. The sharp scent of antiseptic, usually enough to drown out any trace of a patient, seemed muted.
The clinic itself, Harry reminded himself, was just a space. He’d worked here for years—long enough that the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint whir of the ceiling fan were as familiar to him as his own breathing.
Hermione had warned him it was too ambitious—bordering on reckless—to open a clinic so soon after finishing med school. At the time, he’d doubted himself, even conceding she might be right. Who in their right mind would launch a clinic with hardly any experience to back them up? Yet here it stood, a testament to his stubborn resolve.
This place was far from grand, but it gave him a sense of solace he doubted others could understand. Most people wouldn’t associate comfort with a clinic—sterile walls, the faint tang of disinfectant, and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights. But for him, it felt like a refuge, a space where he could carve out meaning in the chaos of life.
It wasn’t just a clinic anymore, not entirely. Over the years, he’d added a few examination rooms, expanding the space bit by bit, though it still fell short of being a full-fledged hospital. The lines were blurred, and the distinction didn’t matter much to him. This place was his—a work in progress, a sanctuary disguised in clinical white.
But the clinic wasn’t about appearances. It was about the people—the quiet but comforting aura of Luna at the front desk, the steady efficiency of the nurses, the patients who came in nervous and left reassured.
This was Harry’s world. A place of routine and purpose. And yet, for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, Tom Riddle had unsettled that routine.
Harry leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re being ridiculous, ” he muttered to himself.
He tried to push the thought away, burying himself in the familiar monotony of forms and charts. But every so often, his mind would wander back to the sharp line of Tom’s jaw, the careful cadence of his voice, the way he’d seemed almost too at ease under Harry’s scrutiny.
Was it curiosity? Professional instinct? Or something else entirely?
Harry didn’t know, He didn’t know if he really wanted to, anyway.
Tom Riddle prided himself on control.
Control over his mind, his body, his surroundings. He had learned young that the world was cruel and chaotic, and those who could not bend it to their will were inevitably crushed beneath it. Control was his armour, his weapon, his creed.
And yet, for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he felt entirely and utterly unbalanced .
It had begun the moment he’d stepped into that cramped, overly lit exam room and seen him .
Doctor Potter.
The name continued to feel unfamiliar on Tom’s tongue, too casual for the sharp green eyes and strong, angular features that had stared down at him with both authority and kindness. Kindness. It was a foreign thing to Tom, an idea he had long since discarded as weakness. And yet, coming from him , it had not felt weak. It had felt... unsettling. Disarming.
Tom had spent days trying to shake the memory of that encounter. He had replayed every moment, every word, analysing and dissecting as though it were a puzzle to be solved. But no amount of rational thought could erase the image of Harry Potter leaning over him, sleeves rolled up, hands steady and sure.
Tom’s hands clenched into fists as he paced his tiny flat, a space as cold and impersonal as he preferred. The walls were bare, the furniture sparse, the only decoration a battered copy of The Prince lying open on the coffee table.
This was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.
And yet...
He paused, leaning against the narrow kitchen counter. The room was dark except for the glow of the city lights filtering through the single window. His reflection stared back at him, sharp and shadowed, the faint glint of his eyes the only thing visible in the glass.
He thought of the way Doctor Potter’s voice had softened when he’d asked if the pain was manageable. The way his hands, larger and rougher than Tom had expected, had handled him with such precision, such care.
It wasn’t just the Doctor's appearance, though that alone was enough to make Tom’s stomach twist in unfamiliar ways. It was the presence . The quiet confidence, the sense of calm that seemed to radiate from him like warmth from the sun.
Tom wanted to see him again. Needed to.
But how?
His first visit had been pure happenstance, a genuine misstep that had sent him tumbling down the stairs outside his building. The irony wasn’t lost on him—that a rare moment of clumsiness had led him to Doctor Potter.
But lightning didn’t strike thrice. If he wanted another encounter, he would have to create it again.
The thought came with a rush of excitement, followed by a flicker of unease. Injuring himself intentionally once had already deliberately gone against every instinct he had. Tom valued his body, his health. He couldn’t afford to be careless.
But for this—for him —it was a risk he was willing to take.
He turned away from the window, pacing again as he considered his options. A broken bone was too extreme. He couldn’t afford a lengthy recovery or any permanent damage. A cut, perhaps? No, that wouldn’t require a proper examination. It had to be something that would ensure Potter’s undivided attention without causing Tom too much discomfort.
A sprain it was, then. Or a minor dislocation. Something that would look accidental, plausible.
The thought settled into his mind like a seed taking root, growing stronger and more certain with each passing moment. Yes. This could work.
He imagined walking into the clinic again, the flicker of recognition in Potter’s eyes. He imagined Potter leaning over him once more, those hands brushing against his skin, the faint scent of antiseptic and something subtly masculine—citrus, perhaps, or sandalwood.
The idea sent a strange, electric thrill through him.
He would make it happen. He had to.
-
Tom had always excelled at strategy. It was a skill honed over years of necessity, each decision carefully measured for maximum impact. Manipulating people and situations to his advantage was second nature, a game he played with ease.
This, he decided, would be no different.
The plan itself was simple: a sprained wrist. Painful enough to warrant an examination, but not severe enough to raise questions. The trick, of course, was to make it look convincing.
Tom arrived at the abandoned skatepark just as the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip behind the buildings. He hadn’t been here in years—not since he’d outgrown the reckless thrill of weaving between ramps and rails—but it was the perfect location. Isolated. Unmonitored.
He climbed onto the rusted edge of a half-pipe, flexing his fingers as he mentally rehearsed the movements. The key was to misstep just enough to land awkwardly without causing lasting damage. A delicate balance, but one he was confident he could manage.
With a deep breath, he let himself slip.
The fall was brief, a jarring impact against the concrete that sent a sharp jolt of pain up his arm. Tom hissed through clenched teeth as he cradled his wrist, already swelling beneath his fingers. He allowed himself a moment to sit there, catching his breath, before slowly rising to his feet.
It wasn’t unbearable, but it was enough.
The clinic was quieter than it had been during his first or second visit. The waiting room was only half full, the soft hum of conversation blending with the low buzz of the vending machine in the corner.
Tom walked in with purpose, holding his wrist in a way that suggested both discomfort and nonchalance. He approached the reception desk, where Luna Lovegood, the nurse, sat. Her large, pale blue eyes met his as she smiled serenely.
“Ah, Mr. Riddle. Back so soon?” she said, her voice dreamy and distant, as though she were already lost in some faraway thought. Her hair, pale blonde and slightly disheveled, framed her face in a way that only added to her ethereal quality.
Tom raised an eyebrow. “It seems I’m terribly unlucky.”
“Oh, no, it’s not unlucky ,” Luna said, tilting her head as if considering the idea for the first time. “Maybe it’s fate, or perhaps it’s just the way the stars are aligned today. Would you like to sign in?” Her gaze drifted past him as though she were watching something he couldn’t see.
“Sure.” Tom chuckled softly, momentarily bemused by her strange, off-kilter energy. He filled out the sign-in form, deliberately letting her read over his shoulder, before handing it back to her. “I’ll need to see the doctor again.”
“Yes, of course. The doctor will see you shortly. You’re in for a treat today. He’s been in a very good mood.” Luna’s voice took on a whimsical tone as she spoke. “I think it’s the new plants in the break room. They’ve been growing quite fast.”
Tom gave her a puzzled look. “Plants?”
Luna nodded seriously. “Yes, they’re very good at absorbing the negative energy in the room. Doctor Potter’s been especially calm, and I think the plants might be the reason. Or perhaps it’s just the way he looks at things. A very unique perspective, if you ask me.”
Tom raised an eyebrow but didn’t question further. He simply nodded and moved to sit in one of the chairs in the waiting area, the soft hum of the clinic filling the silence between them.
A few minutes passed before the door to the exam rooms opened, and there he was—Harry Potter.
Tom’s heart gave a slight skip at the sight of him, and he quickly masked it with a practiced indifference. Harry caught sight of him almost immediately, his gaze flickering in recognition.
“Tom?” Harry asked, a mixture of surprise and concern lacing his voice.
Tom gave a small, sheepish smile. “It appears I’ve had another accident, Doctor.”
Harry’s brow furrowed as he stepped aside, gesturing for Tom to follow him. “Let’s take a look then.”
Tom followed Harry down the familiar hallway, his wrist aching just enough to make his presence feel legitimate. He had done everything right: the fall, the timing, and now, the wait. He was about to see Harry again, and it felt like a little victory.
As they reached the exam room, Harry opened the door and gestured for him to enter. Tom stepped inside, taking a moment to glance around the space—the same sterile white walls, the quiet hum of a fluorescent light overhead. Nothing had changed since his last visit, yet everything felt different now. He couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was the strange pull of wanting to be near Harry.
The door clicked shut behind them, and Tom seated himself on the examination table, flexing his fingers around his wrist as if still testing the injury. Harry placed the clipboard on the counter and approached him with a mixture of professional concern and mild curiosity.
“So, tell me what happened,” Harry said, his voice steady but warm.
Tom looked up, meeting his gaze. There was something about the way Harry's eyes lingered just a moment longer than necessary—something that made Tom feel like they were sharing an unspoken understanding.
“I lost my balance on a ramp,” Tom explained, keeping his tone casual. “Not my first time, but seems I haven’t quite mastered the art of falling.”
Harry’s lips quirked upward, though his expression remained focused. He stepped forward and gently took Tom’s wrist, lifting it just enough to assess the injury. Tom stiffened slightly, partly from the pain but mostly from the feeling of Harry’s hands—those warm, deft fingers—touching him again. It was a sensation that made his pulse spike, even as he maintained an air of nonchalance.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” Harry said, his voice more thoughtful now as he inspected the swelling. “I’ll need to wrap it, but nothing that should keep you from your usual activities. You’ll just need to be careful for a while.”
Tom nodded, biting back a grin. “I’ll try my best.”
Harry shot him a small smile before gathering the bandages and antiseptic. As he worked, the air between them seemed to thicken with an odd, charged quality—something almost palpable. Tom couldn’t help but notice how easy Harry made this feel, how naturally his hands moved. There was something so satisfying about watching Harry take care of him, even if it was only a small injury.
As Harry wrapped his wrist with delicate precision, Tom felt his chest tighten. He wanted to prolong this moment, wanted to keep Harry close for just a little longer. And in the back of his mind, a plan started to take form—one that would allow him to see Harry again and again.
“Anything else?” Harry asked, giving Tom an inquisitive glance as he finished securing the bandage.
Tom’s voice came out smoother than he expected. “I think that’s everything. Thank you, Doctor.”
Harry gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on Tom’s face for just a beat longer than necessary. “It’s no problem. Just take it easy for a few days. I’ll write you a prescription for some pain relievers in case it gets worse.”
Tom held Harry’s gaze, his heart fluttering inexplicably. He could feel the unspoken tension in the air, could sense that Harry was aware of it too, though neither of them addressed it.
“I appreciate it,” Tom said, his voice low and sincere, though a part of him wanted to say something more—something that would bridge the gap between them. But he didn’t. Not yet.
As Harry stepped away to retrieve the prescription pad, Tom’s thoughts raced ahead, already plotting the next step. The injury had worked perfectly; he’d have another chance to see Harry soon. But this time, he’d make sure it was even more convincing. He could keep this game going for as long as it took—he had no intention of stopping until he could convince Harry to give him the attention he truly craved.
Luna had been standing quietly near the door the entire time, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond Tom as she rearranged the flowers in a vase on the windowsill. She hummed softly under her breath, the faintest smile on her lips.
Tom couldn’t help but glance at her, intrigued by how her serene, otherworldly presence seemed to fill the room with an odd sense of calm.
“Is there anything else you need?” she asked dreamily, still focused on the flowers.
Tom raised an eyebrow, his mind momentarily distracted from the calculations racing through his thoughts. “No, I think I’m all set,” he said, but he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips.
“Just remember,” Luna added, as though sharing some great wisdom, “the plants will always guide you back.”
Tom blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the strangeness of her words. He nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As Harry handed him the prescription, Tom caught the subtle smile on his face. He could feel the shift in the air, could sense that Harry was already curious about him, but he wasn’t going to make this easy. Not yet. Tom was playing the long game now—letting each encounter simmer before finally setting the stage for something more.
“Take care of that wrist,” Harry said, his tone light but sincere. “And don’t be a stranger.”
Tom smiled, his pulse quickening. “I’ll be back soon enough.”
As he stepped out of the clinic, prescription in hand, his mind raced with possibilities. He had to play this just right. Each visit, each injury, would bring him closer to his goal. The doctor was already on his radar, and soon enough, Tom would make sure Harry Potter wouldn’t be able to forget him.
The quiet hum of the clinic seemed louder than usual as Harry wiped his hands on his coat, eyes focused on the chart in front of him. His fingers danced over the paperwork absentmindedly as he filed away the last of the day’s patients. The shift was winding down, the clock ticking closer to closing time when the door opened, accompanied by the faint jingle of the bell above. Harry’s gaze flicked up, expecting the usual patient to trickle in, but instead, it was Tom, standing in the doorway, his wrist clutched gently against his chest.
Tom’s presence was almost a predictable rhythm now, as if Harry had already marked the day on his calendar—Tom would arrive, a fresh injury in tow. It was starting to feel almost like clockwork, this ritual of Tom stepping into the clinic with a new ailment, each one just believable enough to pass for a mere accident. But there was something about today that felt different, something about the way Tom’s shoulders sagged slightly that Harry couldn’t quite place.
"Tom," Harry said, his voice warm, but with a touch of confusion, as he set the chart aside and stood up. He wiped his hands on his apron, glancing briefly at the clock. "Back again? this is your fourth visit this month!"
Tom met his eyes and offered a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his usual confident demeanor. "Seems I’m a bit accident-prone lately," he said with a chuckle that was light, but Harry could hear the edge of weariness beneath it.
Harry arched an eyebrow, keeping his tone light. "Right," he said, walking over to the examination room, gesturing for Tom to follow. "What happened this time?"
Tom stepped forward, holding his left wrist gingerly, opposite from his previous injury as though it was fragile, though the careful manner in which he did so seemed exaggerated. "I think I twisted it while carrying some books," he said, a slight wince flashing across his face as if the pain had just begun to register, though it wasn’t nearly as severe as his words implied.
“Books, huh?” Harry said, as though entertaining the idea. He followed Tom into the examination room, his mind beginning to churn with questions. Tom had been here before, but each time seemed to bring a new injury, a new reason. It was starting to feel… scripted. But Harry quickly dismissed the thought. There was no reason to assume anything beyond the obvious, right?
"Let’s take a look," Harry said, keeping his voice neutral as he gestured for Tom to sit on the exam table.
Tom complied, his usual grace now marred by an almost unnatural stiffness in his movements. As Harry began his examination, gently lifting Tom’s wrist to inspect it, he noticed how Tom’s posture had subtly shifted. His back was slightly hunched, his face drawn in concentration, eyes not quite meeting Harry’s. It was a far cry from the confident young man who had walked in for his first visit.
"Does it hurt when I press here?" Harry asked, gently applying pressure around the wrist.
Tom’s eyes flickered up to meet Harry’s, and for a moment, there was something in his gaze—a quick flash of something unreadable, like he was trying to gauge Harry’s thoughts.
"Not quite," Tom answered, his voice steady but tight. "It’s just sore, I presume."
Harry nodded, finishing up his inspection. "It’s not broken," he said with a sigh of relief. "Just a sprain. You’ll be fine with some rest, but no heavy lifting for a few days. Ice it when you can, and I’ll wrap it up for you."
Tom nodded, though he didn’t speak for a moment. Harry finished wrapping Tom’s wrist, still trying to piece together what felt off about the situation. His mind was swirling with questions, but he kept his composure, not wanting to overstep.
"So," Harry said, trying to break the silence, his fingers pausing for a brief moment before he secured the final wrap. "What do you do for work, Tom?" The question seemed casual enough, but there was a curiosity underneath that Harry couldn’t quite hide.
Tom’s eyes widened just slightly, and for a moment, there was a flicker of hesitation, like he was debating whether to answer truthfully or not. But then, as if deciding the matter in his own mind, he leaned back against the table with a shrug, giving a casual smile.
"I’m actually a student," Tom said, his voice light. "A university student. I’m currently studying under Hogwarts University."
Harry blinked, a hint of surprise crossing his face. "Hogwarts University?" he repeated, as if testing the name on his tongue. "Isn’t that one of the top universities around here?"
Tom’s expression softened at the recognition in Harry’s voice. "Yes, it is. I was fortunate enough to given a scholarship for my grades," Tom said, a hint of pride in his tone. "It’s been a lot of work, but I’ve been making do. I’ve always been… academically inclined, I suppose." He gave a slight, self-deprecating smile.
Harry leaned against the counter, intrigued by the brief glimpse into Tom’s world. "That’s really impressive," Harry said, his voice warm, though he couldn’t help but notice the slight strain in Tom’s expression as he spoke. "What are you studying?"
"Philosophy," Tom answered quickly. "And history. I find them fascinating, especially when it comes to ancient civilizations. The way people thought back then… it’s always intrigued me. It’s like they were speaking directly to us, if you know what I mean."
Harry nodded, absorbing the information. "I can see how that would be interesting," he said thoughtfully. "Must be a lot of pressure though, being at a place like that. I imagine there’s a lot of competition."
Tom’s smile faded slightly, but it wasn’t completely gone. "Yeah," he said quietly, "it’s a lot of pressure. But, you know… I must keep going. Pressure makes the most unknowing rock into diamonds." His eyes lowered for a moment, as if trying to hide something in the vulnerability that was just beginning to show.
Harry wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he simply nodded, letting the silence fall between them. As much as he wanted to ask more, to dig deeper, he could tell that Tom wasn’t quite ready to open up. It wasn’t his place to push, so Harry decided to shift the focus back.
"Well, you seem like you’re handling it well," Harry said with a reassuring smile. "I’ve been hearing a lot of good things about Hogwarts University. You’re doing great."
Tom’s eyes met his again, and this time, there was a more genuine smile, though it was tinged with something quieter, almost melancholic. "Thank you. That means a lot."
Harry smiled back, the warmth of the moment somehow feeling more real than the usual quick exchanges they’d had. But before he could get comfortable, Tom asked a question that made Harry’s heart skip a beat.
"What about you?" Tom said casually. "What had led you to opening up this clinic?"
Harry paused, the question unexpected but not unwelcome. He hadn’t thought about his past in a long time, not like this.
"Well," Harry began slowly, his eyes drifting to the corner of the room, his thoughts wandering for a moment. "My parents passed away in a car accident when I was younger. It’s… a hard thing to talk about."
Tom’s expression softened as he listened, and Harry could see the empathy in his eyes. "I’m sorry," Tom said quietly. "That must have been very hard for you."
Harry gave him a small smile, shaking his head. "It’s alright. It was a long time ago. But yeah, this place—it’s not just about the patients. It’s about the people who walk through the door and making them feel safe. Like they’re part of something bigger."
Tom nodded, his eyes thoughtful. For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of their shared words hanging in the air. Then Tom stood up slowly, brushing off his jeans and moving toward the door.
"Thank you again, Doctor," Tom said, his voice quieter now. "I’ll take care of the wrist. I’ll be back in a few days for the follow-up."
"Of course," Harry replied, smiling warmly. "Take care, Tom."
As Tom left the clinic, Harry couldn’t help but watch him go, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. There was something about Tom, something about the way he carried himself, the way his eyes held secrets that he wasn’t ready to share. But there was also something in the way he spoke, in the way he looked at Harry—something that felt… kind of like friendship.
Harry shook his head slightly, trying to dispel the thoughts. It was probably nothing. Just a passing curiosity.
But as he went back to his duties, his eyes lingered on the door for just a moment longer than usual.
The door chimed again as Tom entered the clinic, the familiar sound more like a signal now, almost like a cue for Harry to look up and expect him. Tom had come back again, and Harry had to admit he was beginning to notice the pattern. The same easy gait, the same casual shrug of the shoulders as if the act of walking into the clinic for yet another injury had become routine.
"Tom," Harry greeted, already pushing himself away from the counter. This time, there was no hiding the mild exasperation in his voice, despite his best efforts to remain neutral. He couldn't help it—how many times could someone injure themselves in such a short span? "Back again? You might be my star patient"
Tom gave a sheepish smile, the slight glimmer of mischief in his eyes all too apparent. "Seems like it," he said lightly, though his tone was almost apologetic. "I've been a magnet for physical predicaments lately."
Harry raised an eyebrow, stepping forward as he motioned for Tom to sit. He looked down at the small cut on Tom’s arm—nothing serious, a scrape that could easily be ignored. It was hardly the sort of injury that warranted another visit. "I see," Harry said, voice laced with a bit of humor. "Do you trip over your own feet often, or do you just have a habit of walking into doors and tables?"
Tom chuckled softly, the laugh low and smooth. "I can’t help it," he said, a playful glint in his eyes. "It isn’t like I mean for any of it to happen."
Harry crossed his arms, looking at Tom carefully, then at the wound. "You know, Tom," he said slowly, "I think you should probably get your head checked out or something. There’s got to be a reason for all these accidents, right?"
Tom’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. He leaned back against the wall casually, still smiling, but the glint of something unreadable lingered in his eyes. "My head’s perfectly fine," he said with a light laugh. "It’s just… bad luck, I suppose."
Harry felt a shift in the air as Tom’s smile lingered a moment longer than usual, and it wasn’t just the playful air that Tom usually carried with him. There was something else now—something that made Harry’s thoughts hesitate, if only for a second. But instead of dwelling on it, Harry moved on with the examination, wrapping up Tom’s arm with practiced ease, though his mind was still whirling with the oddity of Tom’s frequent visits.
"Alright," Harry said, standing back and giving Tom a quick once-over. "That should do it. A bit of antiseptic, a clean bandage, and you’ll be fine in a couple of days."
Tom nodded, his expression becoming more thoughtful now. He took a step back, and for a moment, there was a heavy pause between them. Harry felt the shift as the conversation moved away from the injury, as though Tom was more than ready to talk about something else, something deeper.
"So," Tom said, his voice casual but with an edge of curiosity, "you’ve been a doctor for a while, huh?"
Harry hesitated for a moment, glancing at the clock. It was close to closing time, but it seemed like no other patients had come in today, and there was no rush. Tom didn’t seem in any hurry to leave either. So, Harry leaned against the counter, folding his arms casually. "Yeah," he replied, "been a doctor for a few years now. Opened this clinic shortly after I finished med school."
Tom nodded slowly, as if processing that information. He seemed particularly interested today, and Harry noticed how Tom lingered just a bit longer than usual. His eyes seemed to rove around the room, his focus drifting from Harry to the shelves, to the plants near the windowsill. It wasn’t just idle curiosity, though. Tom was taking his time, as if trying to learn more than he had before.
"What made you decide to open up a place like this?" Tom asked, and there was something in his voice now that made it clear he wasn’t just asking out of casual curiosity. His eyes were focused, intent. "I mean, it’s a fair sized clinic, unlike the larger hospitals, but it seems... personal. Different."
Harry took a deep breath, feeling the question in his chest. It wasn’t something he’d talked about often, but Tom’s question felt genuine, and for some reason, Harry felt comfortable enough to answer.
"It’s… it’s a long story," Harry began, shifting slightly as he tried to find the words. "Like I said last time, when I was younger, my parents were in a car accident. They were both killed. After that, it kind of made sense for me to go into medicine. I wanted to help people. But when I finished med school, I realized that I didn’t want to work at one of the big hospitals in the city. This area—" Harry gestured around the clinic, "—this is where they grew up. So, I decided to open my own clinic here, to kind of feel closer to them, you know? Plus, when I opened this place at 25 it was actually much smaller. Had like, one examination room" he chuckled, “but here we are three years later, I’ve got more space and two more of said examination room.”
Tom’s expression softened, and Harry could see a faint hint of empathy in his eyes. He was quiet for a moment, and Harry, feeling a bit exposed, shifted uncomfortably but didn’t break eye contact.
"I hope you accept my condolences, even if it is a little late. And for asking, It must’ve been uncomfortable to satiate my curiosities." Tom said quietly, his voice more sincere than Harry had expected.
Harry nodded. "Condolences accepted, but... life goes on, right?" He gave a small, somewhat self-deprecating smile. "Anyway, this place has always felt like home to me. And I really enjoy being here, helping people makes me feel like I have a purpose."
The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment, and Harry felt the quiet intimacy of the moment, something he rarely shared with anyone, least of all a patient. Tom had asked the right questions, but Harry hadn’t expected the conversation to go this deep.
Tom cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Sounds like you’ve got a lot of heart in what you do."
Harry chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood. "Maybe a little too much, sometimes," he said. "But, yeah. I like to think I’m doing something good."
There was a pause between them, then Tom smiled, though it was a little more genuine this time. "I admire that," he said. "You’re doing good work here, Doctor."
For some reason, Harry couldn’t help but feel the weight of Tom’s words more than he expected. Maybe it was just the way Tom said them, like they held more meaning than they appeared. Maybe it was because Tom had been coming back so often, and Harry wasn’t sure what to make of it, but it felt… different today.
As if on cue, Tom glanced up at the clock and then back at Harry. “My apologies, I’ve kept you long enough from your work"
Harry shook his head, glancing at the clock himself. "No, it’s fine. No other patients today, so I’m not in a rush." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "You’re welcome to hang around for a bit, if you want."
Tom looked at him, surprised by the offer. Harry smiled slightly, trying to keep it casual. "I mean, if you want to talk or… whatever."
Tom considered it for a moment, then smiled. "Sure, why not? I’ve got ample time to spare."
And just like that, the conversation shifted again. For the next few hours, Harry found himself talking more than he had in ages. He talked about his clinic, his life, even his little cat named Hedwig, who had a habit of knocking things off the shelves when she was bored. Tom seemed genuinely interested, asking about his days off, his hobbies, what he did when he wasn’t working. Harry hadn’t really thought much about his routine outside the clinic, but talking about it now made him realize how much he enjoyed the quiet moments at home, curled up with a good book or watching Hedwig chase after the sunlight.
Tom, for his part, opened up just a little more. He spoke about his studies, his interest for philosophy and history, and how sometimes he voiced out his dilemmas on whether or not he was making the right choices for his future. He didn’t go too deep, but Harry could sense there was more beneath the surface, even if Tom wasn’t ready to share.
And for the first time, Harry didn’t mind the quiet moments between them. It felt natural, like two people just talking, getting to know each other.
Eventually, as the sun began to set outside, Tom stood up, dusting invisible specks off his well ironed blazer. "I should probably get going," he said. "I wouldn't want to keep you from anything."
Harry nodded, though part of him wished Tom could stay longer. But he kept the thought to himself. "Take care, Tom. Don’t hurt yourself again, alright?"
Tom laughed, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "I’ll do my best." He turned to leave, but before he reached the door, he paused and looked back at Harry. "Thank you for the conversation and your time, Doctor Potter."
Harry smiled softly, feeling something stir in his chest. "Anytime," he said. "Take care of that arm."
And as Tom left the clinic, Harry found himself lingering at the door for a moment longer than usual, watching him disappear down the street, wondering what it all meant.
The small café was tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, its warm lights casting a soft glow through the windows as the gentle hum of conversation and clinking cups created a calm, almost intimate atmosphere. Harry sat across from Hermione, his coffee long since gone cold, the mug forgotten as he stirred the contents absentmindedly. The rain outside had started to fall lightly, dotting the windows in a steady rhythm, but Harry hardly noticed the weather now. His mind was elsewhere, still on Tom—his frequent, strange patient.
"I swear, I don't know what to make of it, ‘Mione," Harry said, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "This guy, Tom, he keeps coming back. Every few days, with a new injury. And it’s always something minor, like a scratch or a bruise. I don't understand how he always gets hurt."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her usual sharp gaze fixed on Harry. She took a sip from her tea before setting the cup down, her expression growing concerned. "Wait—are you telling me that this guy has come back multiple times with injuries that don’t even seem serious? That's... odd, Harry. Are you sure he’s not just some creep trying to get your attention?"
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "I don't think so. He’s a university student, ‘Mione. He’s so much younger than me. I’m practically old enough to be his uncle at this point." He leaned forward, lowering his voice in mock seriousness. "How could he be a creep?"
Hermione didn’t seem entirely convinced. She pursed her lips and crossed her arms, her brow furrowing. "Still, Harry, I don’t know. You’re a doctor. You should know by now that some people will go to any lengths to get attention—especially if they’re... looking for something."
Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny the hint of worry that tugged at the back of his mind. Tom’s behavior was certainly odd, and Harry had been trying to ignore the uneasy feeling it stirred in him. "I don’t think it’s anything like that," he said, forcing a smile. "I’ve seen enough odd cases in my career to know this one is... just a weird coincidence. The guy is genuinely accident-prone."
"Accident-prone, huh?" Hermione raised an eyebrow, the skepticism evident in her tone. "How many accidents does it take for someone to start wondering if it’s intentional? I mean, it’s not normal, Harry. People don’t usually hurt themselves this often without a reason."
"I get it, I do," Harry said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It’s strange, but… I don’t know. There’s something about him that doesn’t quite fit. He’s always so polite, like he’s trying too hard to seem normal. And his injuries are never severe, just enough to get him to come back again. It’s almost like he wants an excuse to come into the clinic." Harry sighed, sitting back again. "But I haven’t had many other people come in lately. So, I guess I’m just stuck with him for now."
Hermione looked at him, still unconvinced, but she gave a slight nod, the concern not entirely gone from her face. "Just be careful, Harry. You don’t know this guy’s intentions. Trust your instincts, okay? You don’t have to put yourself in a situation that makes you uncomfortable."
Harry smiled reassuringly, even though her words nagged at him in the back of his mind. "I will, ‘mione. I promise. I’ll be careful. And I’m sure he’s harmless."
Hermione didn’t seem entirely satisfied with his response, but she let it go for now. "Alright," she said, tapping her fingers on the side of her cup as she looked at him. "But seriously, I’m still not sure about this whole situation. Be on your toes, Harry."
He waved her off with a lighthearted chuckle. "You worry too much. He’s harmless, I’m telling you." He paused, then, with a grin, he shifted the topic. "Speaking of worrying, how’s law school treating you? Still planning on getting yourself a seat in office one day?"
Hermione’s face brightened, her posture straightening with pride as she leaned in. "You know it," she said, enthusiasm ringing in her voice. "I’m working hard on my thesis right now. I have to be prepared for the bar exam next year, and after that, I’ll be looking for work at a firm. My goal is to eventually run for office, maybe even one day have a seat in Parliament. But first, I have to put in the work. It’s a lot, but I love it. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do."
Harry couldn’t help but smile at Hermione’s determination. "I have no doubt you’ll get there," he said, the pride in his voice evident. "You’re probably the only person I know who could actually make it happen, and you’ll do it all on your own. I’m sure of it."
Hermione blushed slightly, though she tried to hide it with a half-smile. "Thanks, Harry. That means a lot." She paused, eyes softening as she added, "You’ve always been there for me, you know? I really appreciate it."
Harry’s smile widened, and for a moment, everything else faded away. It was just him and Hermione in their small corner of the world, talking about old dreams and new aspirations. For a fleeting moment, the worries about Tom and his mysterious visits slipped to the back of his mind.
"Anytime, Hermione," Harry replied quietly, leaning back in his chair and looking out the window at the rain. "You know I’ve always got your back."
Hermione reached for her tea again, but this time, her gaze was more distant, as if lost in her thoughts. Harry didn’t mind the silence, letting the rhythm of the café wash over them both.
The bell above the door chimed softly as it swung open, and Tom entered the clinic once again, coffee holder in hand. He looked remarkably well put-together for someone who'd spent a good portion of the last few weeks visiting the place with odd injuries. This time, though, there was no sign of a scrape or bruise on his well-groomed appearance. Instead, he looked like someone who had just popped by for a casual visit.
Luna Lovegood, who was sitting behind the desk with her usual dreamy smile, looked up from her book. "Oh, hello again," she greeted him. "How nice of you to come by. You brought coffee, too. How thoughtful."
Tom smiled faintly and took a cup from the holder and handed it to her, which she accepted with a nod of thanks. "Just a small gesture," he said, his voice smooth. "Doctor Potter around?"
Luna nodded and reached for the phone. "I’ll let him know you’re here," she said, her voice carrying an ethereal quality that always seemed to make everything sound more whimsical than it likely was. "You can wait right here."
Tom, however, made no move to sit. Instead, he glanced around the waiting room, his eyes trailing over the empty seats, before turning back to Luna. "I’ll just head on in," he said, flashing a warm smile as he walked toward the back office. "I don’t mind waiting for him there."
Luna simply smiled in her usual way, as if this was all perfectly normal.
When Tom pushed the door open to Harry’s office, Harry looked up from his desk, his brow furrowing in confusion at the sight of his patient. "Tom?" he asked, half-rising from his chair. "You’re not hurt again, are you?"
Tom shook his head, a chuckle escaping him. "No, no injuries this time," he said smoothly, crossing the threshold and walking further into the room. "I just wanted to stop by. And, well," he held out the coffee, "I brought you this."
Harry blinked, trying to hide the surprise that washed over him. He was used to Tom coming in with various wounds, but this—this was entirely different. "I’m not sure I understand," Harry said, sitting back down in his chair. "Why are you here, exactly? I mean, it’s not like you’re scheduled for a visit."
Tom casually took a seat across from Harry, placing a coffee on the desk. He leaned back, looking around the room for a moment before his eyes landed back on Harry. "I thought I’d drop by for a chat. See how you’re doing," he said smoothly. "Maybe ask you about your day?"
Harry leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. He didn’t want to sound rude, but the whole situation was… strange. Here was his patient—someone who was supposed to be coming to him for medical attention—sitting in his office as if they were friends meeting for coffee. It wasn’t exactly something he was used to. It was a little unsettling.
But, at the same time, Harry couldn’t deny that there was something oddly comforting about Tom’s presence, as though he wasn’t just a patient, maybe a friend? and acquaintance? Harry wasn’t sure what it was, but it was there, lurking just beneath the surface.
"It’s been a pretty uneventful afternoon, actually," Harry said, trying to ease the awkwardness of the moment. "And I suppose that's a good thing, right? Fewer injuries means people are doing well, staying healthy."
Tom nodded, his gaze unwavering. "I suppose it does," he replied, though his eyes twinkled with a mischievous gleam. "And I guess that means you’ll have time for something else, won’t you?"
Harry raised an eyebrow, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. "What do you mean?"
Tom leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering, taking on a more intimate tone. "I was wondering if you’d be willing to close up early today," he said, his lips curling into a playful grin. "Maybe go out for dinner with me somewhere?"
For a moment, Harry just stared at him, processing the words. His brain did a quick double-take. "Wait," Harry said, blinking as he processed the request. "Are you asking me out on a date?"
Tom’s grin remained, and he didn’t hesitate to confirm it. "I suppose I am," he said softly. "If you’d be willing to join me."
Harry’s mind whirled with confusion and a strange sense of hesitation. He was 28—almost a decade older than Tom. And Tom was still in university, barely out of his teens. It seemed... odd. To say the least.
"Isn't it a bit strange?" Harry asked, half-smiling in disbelief. "I mean, I’m 28, if you haven’t realized, and you're... 19." He let the question hang in the air, the weight of the age difference between them becoming more prominent now that it had been voiced out loud. Harry couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something inappropriate about the idea of dating someone so much younger than him.
Tom, however, simply shrugged, completely unfazed by the age gap. "Age matters not," he said with a soft laugh. "I'm of legal age, after all, and I’m the one asking you out—not the other way around." His gaze softened, a faint trace of something earnest flickering behind his eyes. "I’d like to get to know you better, Doctor. Don’t worry about the age thing. It’s not a big deal."
The words hung in the air between them, and Harry found himself searching Tom’s eyes, looking for some sign that he wasn’t just saying that to make himself feel better about the situation. But there was nothing there but sincerity.
Harry leaned back in his chair, considering it. He could feel a knot of uncertainty in his stomach, but there was also a spark of curiosity, something that felt a little too tempting to ignore. The conversation was already moving forward, and though part of him wanted to say no, another part—a much quieter part—wanted to say yes.
"You sure this isn’t just... a random whim?" Harry asked, the teasing tone barely covering the uncertainty in his voice. “Tons of younger men your age who’d love to have you for a date, Tom.”
Tom’s smile never wavered. "I’m sure. It’s not just a whim, Doctor," he said confidently. "I know what I want. And I’d like to share dinner with you. You never know what you might find out over a meal."
Harry stared at him for a long moment, then, finally, a small, hesitant smile tugged at his lips. "Alright," he said, his voice steadying. "Just call me Harry, then, and dinner it is."
And just like that, the tension that had been building between them melted away. Harry couldn’t deny it—he was curious. Maybe it was the age difference, or maybe it was something else entirely, but he had a feeling that whatever this was, it wasn’t just going to be another ordinary evening.
Tom’s eyes lit up with satisfaction
“Alright, Harry.”
and Harry couldn’t help but feel like he was in for something he wasn’t entirely prepared for.