Chapter Text
The last week of term should have felt like freedom.
Harry could hear it through the closed door of Dumbledore's office, the distant echo of students laughing, trunks scraping across stone floors, someone's owl screeching in protest. Out there, his year was counting down the hours. Ron had already started a running tally on a piece of parchment. Forty-three hours, mate. Forty-three hours and we're done.
Harry was not counting down.
He was sitting in a wingback chair across from Dumbledore's desk, sandwiched between his parents, with Professor McGonagall standing slightly to the side like she'd rather be literally anywhere else.
Harry knew the feeling.
This is so embarrassing, he thought, for probably the tenth time since his mum had met him outside Transfiguration that morning and said, with that particular careful tone she sometimes, "Dumbledore would like to see us this afternoon, sweetheart."
Harry was doomed.
His dad reached over and squeezed his knee. Harry resisted the urge to shift away. James Potter meant well, he always meant well, but the gesture made Harry feel about seven years old, which was not helpful right now.
Dumbledore was speaking. Harry made himself pay attention.
"—not entirely uncommon, of course, in cases where secondary presentation is delayed this significantly."
The headmaster folded his hands over the desk, his half-moon glasses catching the afternoon light filtering through the tall windows. His tone was measured, almost conversational, like they were discussing Harry's marks in Charms rather than the fact that Harry's biology had apparently decided to just not.
"What is unusual, and what has given us cause for concern, is the degree to which the delay appears to be affecting Harry's magical output."
Lily Potter made a small sound. Harry glanced at her sideways. She had her hands folded tightly in her lap and she was watching Dumbledore with that expression she got, the one she thought looked calm.
His dad wasn't doing much better. James Potter had this crease between his eyebrows that Harry had privately started calling his worried dad face, and it was currently at full intensity.
Harry looked back at his own hands. Yeah. Okay. We all know it's bad.
It was bad. That was the thing. Harry couldn't even really argue his way out of this one, much as part of him wanted to. The days where he'd sat out of class this year hadn't been a choice. He'd picked up his wand and just... nothing. The magic was there, he could feel it, somewhere under everything, but it was like reaching for something solidly behind a wall. On the worst day, a Thursday in March (that Harry had decided he was going to spend the rest of his life not thinking about) he'd been in the middle of a Charms practical and produced exactly nothing for forty minutes while Flitwick pretended not to notice and Harry pretended he wasn't mortified.
Three times. It had happened three times this year.
"We believe," Dumbledore continued, "that there is something functioning as a block. Something preventing both Harry's full presentation and the free flow of his magic. The two, in omega physiology, are deeply interconnected — you'll know this, of course." He nodded toward Lily, who was, Harry dimly remembered, the one who'd read approximately six hundred books on omega development when Harry had first been identified as one at age fourteen. "An omega who hasn't fully presented by seventeen is not unheard of. An omega whose magic is being suppressed as a direct result… that is more serious."
Great. Love that for me.
McGonagall cleared her throat quietly.
"Harry has been a dedicated student throughout his time here," she said, and it came out a bit stiff, the way McGonagall sounded when she was being supportive and found the experience slightly uncomfortable. Harry liked her for it. At least it felt honest. "We have no desire to see his final year compromised."
"No one in this room does," Dumbledore agreed. He looked at Harry directly then, and Harry made himself meet the gaze, which was, as always, a little bit like being seen all the way through. "Harry. I want you to hear me clearly on this point."
Harry gave a short nod.
"This is not something to fear." Dumbledore's voice was quiet but certain, the particular kind of way that made you want to believe him even when you weren't sure you should. "What we are facing is a puzzle, and puzzles, in my experience, have solutions." He glanced at James and Lily, as if he could see the tension rolling off both of them. "I understand this is not easy to hear, for any of you. But I would not have asked you here to deliver bad news without also bringing the good."
James exhaled slowly beside him. "What's the good news, then?"
"The good news," said Dumbledore, and there was something almost warm in the way he said it, "is that we have time. A summer's worth of it, at minimum, and there are very skilled people who specialize in exactly this kind of case." He reached to one side of his desk and produced a folded piece of parchment that, Harry noticed immediately, was long. Like, concerningly long. "I have put together a list of recommended practitioners. Healers, specialists in secondary gender development, and at least two individuals whose work sits at the intersection of physiology and magical theory. Any one of them would be well-equipped to help Harry."
Harry looked at the list and then looked away, bitterly. That was his good news?
"We will find the right person," Dumbledore said, and his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. "And when September comes, Harry, I fully intend for you to walk through those doors for your seventh year.”
The room was quiet for a moment.
Harry's mum reached over and took his hand, and this time he didn't pull away. He stared at the middle distance somewhere between Dumbledore's desk and the wall, where one of the painted former headmasters appeared to be pretending to nap so he didn't have to be part of the conversation.
Fair, Harry thought.
He felt tired, mostly. Everyone in this room was trying to help him. That was the genuinely awful part. There was nothing to be angry at, nobody to blame. Just his own biology being inconvenient in the worst possible way. Just his luck, really.
He looked at Dumbledore, then McGonagall, and felt like he should probably say something, considering this entire meeting was for his sake.
"Thanks," he said. It came out a bit rough. He cleared his throat. "Both of you. For… yeah. For sorting all this out."
McGonagall gave him a short, firm nod, the kind that meant you're welcome without making a whole thing of it. Harry appreciated that more than he could say.
Dumbledore's eyes crinkled again.
"Of course, my boy." He slid the folded parchment across the desk. "Now. Go enjoy what remains of your term."
Harry took the list, tucked it into his robes, and stood. His mum squeezed his hand once before letting go.
Forty-something hours, he thought, following his parents toward the door.
The waiting room was nice.
Not the sterile, slightly grim corridors he usually associated with St. Mungo's. The specialist offices were tucked into a quieter wing of the building and the waiting room had actual cushioned chairs and a window that looked out over a small enclosed courtyard. It felt more like a solicitor's office than a hospital.
His mum had practically glowed walking in. She'd been like this all morning, which Harry found both endearing and slightly exhausting.
"He's published over forty peer-reviewed papers, Harry," she'd said over breakfast, in an excited tone. "Forty. And his work on the relationship between secondary biology and innate magical capacity is just — it's groundbreaking. It's exactly what you need."
"Mmhm," Harry had said, no longer hungry.
"He doesn't usually take private patients anymore," she added, like Harry hadn't heard this part three times already.
"I know, Mum."
"It's a very good sign that he agreed—"
"Lily." His dad had caught her eye and she'd stopped, and smiled.
His dad's optimism was quieter, which Harry appreciated more. James had said, settling into one of the waiting room chairs and stretching his legs out, "I mean, on paper he sounds brilliant. I just hope he's actually—" He'd glanced at Harry and visibly adjusted. "He'll be great, I'm sure. Oh, Riddle, wasn't it? I think that name rings a bell actually. Pretty sure he was at Hogwarts when we were there, Lils."
“I was telling you that last night, he was a few years above us.” Lily sighed.
"Small world," Harry said, not particularly interested.
He'd spent most of the wait trying to keep his expectations sensibly low. A specialist this accomplished, who apparently didn't usually see patients anymore and had to be personally convinced to take Harry's case — he'd probably spend the whole appointment talking to his parents instead of to him. Harry knew how these things went.
The door opened.
Harry looked up, fully prepared to see someone unremarkable.
The man who walked in was not unremarkable.
He was tall, impossible to miss, and he moved through the room with an easy confidence. Dark hair, perfectly styled, with a single striking streak of silver running through it that looked like it had been put there on purpose. Strong jaw. High cheekbones. And he was a genius? The world could be so perfectly unfair at times.
Harry's brain couldn’t make sense of it.
They've sent the wrong person, was his suspicion. There's been some kind of mix-up and they've sent someone else in here by mistake.
He was wearing Healer's robes, though, deep charcoal rather than the lime-green of the main wards, and they were immaculate. He carried a leather case at his side and a folder under one arm, and he was already looking at Harry with focused eyes as he crossed toward them.
Alpha, Harry clocked on instinct, something in the bearing of him, the way he occupied the space. But there was no scent to confirm it. Neutral. Blockers, probably. Most of the medical profession used them and it made sense, kept things professional. Still. The absence of scent somehow made the presence of everything else more pronounced.
Harry realised his mother was already standing.
"Healer Riddle," she said, and she sounded genuinely delighted, which Harry found a little embarrassing. "It's such an honour to meet you. I've followed your research for years."
"Mrs. Potter." Riddle shook her hand, and then his father's, and his voice was — smooth was the word, and posh, like every vowel had to be articulated. "Mr. Potter. Thank you for coming."
Then he looked at Harry, and Harry straightened slightly without meaning to.
"And you must be Harry."
"Yeah," Harry said. Brilliant. Very articulate. "That's me."
There was something that might have been the very beginning of a smile at one corner of Riddle's mouth, there and gone. Healer Riddle ushered them all into a private office. He set the folder on the small table beside the examination chair and turned to address all three of them briefly.
"I'll keep the introductions short. I imagine you've all been spoken quite thoroughly by this point." He glanced between Harry's parents. "I don't take private patients as a general rule. My time these days goes predominantly to research and to teaching trainees. However—" His gaze settled back on Harry. "Harry's case sits at what I'd call the precise centre of my work. The intersection of secondary biological development and what we might formally term innate magical capacity and output." He said it the way someone said a title, deliberately. "When Professor Dumbledore reached out, I found it difficult to argue that I wasn't the right person to at least try."
"We're very grateful," Lily said warmly.
Riddle acknowledged this with a small nod, then looked again at Harry.
"I want to be straightforward with you. I will do my best, and I believe there's meaningful work to be done here. But if I reach a point where I don't think I can help you, I'll tell you plainly. I won't waste your summer on something I can't deliver." A pause. "Your time is limited. I intend to respect that."
Harry blinked. Nobody in a professional context had ever talked to him quite like that so directly, without dressing it up.
"Okay," he said. "Thank you."
Riddle set his case down and glanced toward the door, then back.
"I'd like to speak with Harry on his own from this point, if that's alright. These appointments tend to involve fairly personal territory — biology, symptoms, physical history. Most patients find it easier without an audience." His tone made it a gentle fact rather than a dismissal.
Harry's parents exchanged a quick look. His mum nodded, his dad gave Harry a brief shoulder-squeeze on the way past, and then the door clicked shut behind them.
The room was suddenly much quieter.
Riddle turned to look at him.
"Before we begin, I want you to know that if at any point something I ask or do makes you uncomfortable, you say so. We can have a mediwitch present for any or all of our appointments if you'd prefer. That can be arranged easily."
"No, it's — I'm fine," Harry said. Then, because that had come out a bit quickly, "I think. I'll let you know."
Riddle studied him for a moment with that same level, attentive expression.
"Good." He pulled over a chair, sat, and opened the folder across his knee and just like that, the room shifted into something that felt more manageable. More like an appointment and less like whatever that first sixty seconds had been.
Harry exhaled quietly and reminded himself to act normal.
Riddle uncapped a sleek black muggle pen, Harry noted with vague surprise, and poised it over the top of the form.
"We'll start simply," he said. "Age?"
"Seventeen."
"Date of birth?"
"July thirty-first." Harry paused. "Nineteen-eighty."
"Weight? Approximately is fine." Riddle wrote without looking up.
"Uh… around seventy-four kilos, I think. Last time I checked."
"And your physical activity. How would you describe your general level?"
"Pretty high, I'd say. I work out most mornings during term when I can. And I play Quidditch. I'm the Gryffindor Seeker, so there's practice twice a week plus matches."
Riddle glanced up briefly at that, and Harry couldn't tell if it registered as impressive or irrelevant. He wrote something down.
"Good. Physical fitness is actually relevant here, we'll come back to it." He turned the page. "Now. I'm going to ask you some more personal questions. Take your time with the answers and be as honest as you can. Nothing you tell me is going to be surprising, and none of it leaves this room."
Great, Harry thought. Personal questions. Wonderful. Can't wait. He tried not to fidget in his seat.
“Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”
“No.” That was an easy one to answer.
"Are you currently sexually active?"
"No," Harry said. His voice stayed fairly even, but the tips of his ears were going pink already.
He was absolutely not going to explain to this man — this extremely conventionally attractive man who definitely didn’t have any issues in that department — that the reason he wasn't sexually active was partly because of the whole situation. It made the idea of sex feel less appealing and more like a reminder of everything that wasn't right about him. It made him feel like a freak. Those thoughts would stay firmly inside his own head where they belonged.
Riddle made a note.
"Any sexual experience at all?"
"I mean uhm some kissing." Harry looked at the wall briefly. "Bit more than that. Nothing… nothing further."
"Understood." Another note, entirely clinical, blessedly free of any reaction. "Do you masturbate?"
Harry was going to need the floor to swallow him. Just completely swallow him whole.
"Yes," he said.
"How frequently, roughly?"
"Every other day. Roughly."
Riddle looked up at him then, and the look on his face was genuinely, professionally neutral. It had probably been trained into him over years of exactly these conversations with exactly this kind of mortified patient.
"That's perfectly normal for a boy your age," he said, and his tone was so matter-of-fact, so utterly un-weird about it. "I only ask because frequency and pattern can tell us things."
Harry didn't correct him. Technically he was seventeen, the age of majority — an adult, by wizarding law — but pointing that out would have sounded childish. And besides, he supposed that to someone of Riddle's age, the distinction probably didn't amount to much. Harry let it go.
"When you masturbate," Riddle continued, without any change in inflection whatsoever, "do you stimulate your penis, your vagina, or both?"
Harry had not thought this could get worse. He had been incorrect.
"Mainly my — mainly the, uh. Penis." He cleared his throat. "Yeah."
Riddle wrote it down.
"And is there ejaculate?"
"Yes."
A pause, pen still moving.
"I know you said mainly but on occasions when you have stimulated your vagina, have you noticed any slick?"
The question landed and Harry felt a different kind of embarrassment settle in. He knew what the right answer was supposed to be. He knew what it meant that he didn't have it.
"No," he said. His voice came out a little quieter. "No, there isn't."
He frowned at his own hands. More evidence that there was something wrong with him. The slick was the biological marker, the physical proof of a presenting omega. No slick meant no presentation meant no — nothing, no heats, no cycles. Just Harry, stuck and stalled and apparently not functioning correctly at a level that was now being documented in neat handwriting by someone who looked like a Greek god.
"Harry."
He looked up.
Riddle had set the clipboard down on his knee and was watching him with that same measured, attentive expression. Not an ounce of pity.
"It’s just data," he said. "It doesn’t mean anything yet."
"Okay." Harry nodded once, jaw tight.
Riddle held his gaze a moment longer, then reached for his case.
"I'm going to take some blood now. Routine panel — secondary hormone levels, magical saturation markers, a few others. Standard starting point." Riddle snapped on a pair of thin white gloves with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done it ten thousand times and withdrew what looked like a slim silver pointed instrument with a glass bulb near the end. "You'll feel a small pinch."
He moved his chair slightly closer and held out one gloved hand, waiting.
Harry extended his arm.
Riddle took it carefully, his grip light but sure and turned it gently to expose the inside of his elbow. He located the vein with a brief, practiced touch and then positioned the instrument.
The pinch was exactly that. A pinch, and then nothing.
Harry watched the vial fill with blood and looked back up. Riddle's attention was entirely on the task, dark eyes focused and downcast. Harry noticed his absurdly long eyelashes. It seemed like a completely unnecessary feature for someone who was already — anyway. Whatever. It didn’t matter.
Riddle withdrew the instrument, murmured a quick healing spell to the small puncture point, and looked up at him through those ridiculously long lashes.
"Very good, Harry," he said warmly. "You're doing so well."
Harry went a little dizzy. Not from the blood loss. Riddle had barely taken any at all.
Do not, he told himself firmly. He is a professional. He is older than your parents. What is wrong with you?
"Thank you," Harry managed. Completely normal. Completely fine.
"I'll need to do a physical examination as well. I'll give you some privacy to undress," Riddle informed him, his voice settling back into that same neutral register.
Definitely not completely fine, Harry's brain screamed at him. What came out instead was a small croak.
"Sure."
"There's a robe on the examination table." He gestured toward it. "Would you like me to call a mediwitch in to chaperone?"
"No." The only thing worse than getting naked in front of one person was getting naked in front of two people. Obviously.
Riddle studied him for a brief moment.
"Is this too much for today, Harry? We can move the physical to our next appointment but I’m afraid it’s necessary, I can't get a complete picture of your condition without it."
His smile was small and slightly apologetic. Harry didn’t need to be coddled like a child.
"No, really, it's fine. I understand." He straightened. "Let's just get it done."
Riddle nodded and stepped out and pulled the door quietly shut behind him.
Harry let out a breath and reached for the hem of his robes. He'd worn his more comfortable set today, anticipating exactly this. His hands were unsteady as he pulled them over his head and he made a conscious effort to stop that.
The robe was plain white cotton with a small tie at the front, falling to just above his knees like an oversized Muggle t-shirt. He climbed onto the examination table.
No big deal, he told himself. People do this all the time. It's routine. You're being an idiot.
He was only being an idiot about it because his Healer happened to be, well… objectively, certifiably, unfairly good-looking. That was all this was. If Healer Riddle had looked like literally anyone else, Harry wouldn't be sitting here fighting the urge to simply slide off the table and walk directly out of the building.
A knock at the door. Small. Polite.
"Come in," Harry said, only slightly hysterical.
Riddle came back in quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. He approached the examination table slowly, stopping a comfortable distance away.
"I'll talk you through everything before I do it," he said. "Nothing will happen without warning. Alright?"
Harry nodded.
"I'll start with some basic diagnostics. Temperature, heart rate, breathing." He raised his wand and murmured something low and precise. A faint shimmer passed over Harry like a cool breath.
"Temperature is normal." He made a note. Another small spell, this one settling briefly over Harry's chest like a hum. Riddle glanced at whatever reading presented itself and made a small sound. "Your heart rate is slightly elevated."
Harry opened his mouth.
"It's perfectly common," Riddle said, before he could say anything. "Most people are a little nervous when they come to see a Healer."
It should have been reassuring. It was slightly mortifying instead.
"Let's do your breathing." Riddle stepped closer. "Take a deep breath in for me slowly."
Harry tried. It came out slightly uneven.
"Again." Riddle's hand came to rest lightly on his back, between his shoulder blades, and his other hand settled at the side of Harry's chest, palm over his ribs, over his lung. "Follow my count. In, two, three, four. Hold. And out, two, three, four."
Harry followed. Then again. Then a third time.
It worked, annoyingly. The tight thing that had been sitting in his chest since he'd changed into the gown loosened incrementally, his breathing evening out, his shoulders dropping.
"Good," Riddle said quietly, and removed his hands.
Harry had approximately three seconds of calm before Riddle placed his thumb, still gloved and warm, under Harry's chin and tilted his face up slightly.
"Open for me, please. Say ahh."
Harry opened his mouth.
Riddle leaned in and examined him with a small focused spell, his gaze tracking slowly and carefully. He was very close. Harry had nowhere to look that wasn't directly at his face and found himself doing exactly that with resigned helplessness.
His skin was perfect. Genuinely flawless — even complexion, small pores, not a mark on him. His lashes cast faint shadows on his cheekbones when he glanced down. Harry suddenly understood why the girls in his class would gripe about these sorts of things.
Riddle straightened and his hand slid from Harry's chin down the side of his neck, slow and deliberate, purely diagnostic. Harry stopped himself, just barely, from tipping his head back. Riddle's fingers pressed gently along his throat and then both hands rose to frame either side of his neck, thumbs forward, fingers curved around to the back.
His mating gland.
Harry went very still.
"It's well developed," Riddle said. "That's a very good sign."
Harry made a vague noise of acknowledgement, as though he had any idea what that meant.
"I'm going to apply a little pressure now. Tell me immediately if there's any pain."
There was no pain.
There was the absolute opposite of pain. The contact sent something warm and liquid radiating outward from the gland and Harry had to press his lips together and focus very hard on a fixed point over Riddle's shoulder to stop himself from making a sound he could never recover from.
"It doesn't hurt," he managed. "It's just — it's a little, ah. Sensitive."
"Thank you for telling me." Riddle's hands withdrew. He made a note. "That's useful information." He looked at Harry. "I'd like you to lie back for me now. Keep your knees bent and your feet flat on the table." A brief pause. "I'll need to perform a brief external examination of your genitalia — both. It will be quick and I won't need to do an internal examination today."
Harry lay back without saying anything. He didn't trust his voice to come out at a normal register and opted to simply stare at the ceiling instead, hands folded over his stomach, and resign himself to the next sixty seconds of his life.
The ceiling was very white. Very plain.
He felt Riddle move into position and carefully lift the hem of the gown. The air was cool and Harry kept his eyes fixed directly upward and tried to think about absolutely nothing.
"I'll need to touch you briefly. It won't hurt."
Riddle's gloved hands were careful, gently spreading him open with his fingers. Harry's breath caught, he couldn't help it. Was he looking inside of him? The thought made Harry want to squirm right off the table. He fixed his eyes harder on the ceiling and forced himself to stay still. It lasted only a moment. Riddle was already stepping back, drawing the gown down to cover him again, snapping the gloves off and vanishing them with a flick of his wrist in the same motion.
Harry stared at the ceiling for one more moment, then pushed himself upright.
"Thank you for your cooperation today, Harry." Riddle was already at the small desk, making his final notes. "I'll step out to speak briefly with your parents. Just a quick update, nothing detailed. Take your time getting dressed, and when you're ready you can come through." He capped his pen and looked at Harry. "Do you have any questions for me before I go?"
Harry shook his head.
Riddle smiled again, professional, perfectly composed, and the door clicked shut behind him.
Harry sat on the edge of the examination table in his paper robe and stared at the middle distance for a long moment.
"Merlin," he said quietly, to nobody and reached for his robes.
After the examination, Harry felt weird. Not bad exactly, just strange, like a bug under a microscope, except the microscope was being operated by a male model. It added a whole other layer to an already surreal experience.
It must have shown, because his parents were blessedly quiet through dinner. No probing questions, no careful looks. Just the sound of cutlery and his dad telling some long, meandering story about something that had happened at work that Harry followed about forty percent of. He was grateful for it.
They came to find him later, though, just before he went to sleep. His mum perched on the edge of his bed and while his dad did his best to be casual, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed.
"We know it was a lot today. We just wanted to check in. Are you okay?" His mum asked gently.
"I'm fine," Harry said. Only a little strained. He pulled up a smile so she wouldn't worry. "Really."
"Oh, Harry." She threw her arms around him anyway and he let himself be hugged, chin dropping briefly to her shoulder. "I know it must have felt so invasive. I've said it a million times, but please know your dad and I love you very much, no matter what." She pulled back and looked at him, hands on his arms, expression soft. “Do you like Healer Riddle, at least?"
Lily Potter was the most caring and understanding mother anyone could possibly hope for. She was also ignorant to Harry’s real issue, the one he’d been quietly turning over all evening. He was becoming increasingly convinced this arrangement might not work.
Harry liked Healer Riddle.
A little too much.
What he needed was a Healer who was much older than Riddle, closer to a hundred, not an alpha, someone with no sex appeal whatsoever, and who didn't make Harry feel so painfully inadequate.
He couldn't exactly say that to his parents. The only viable option was to suck it up.
"Yeah," Harry said, and gave them another smile that hoped read as tired rather than quietly unhinged. "He's the best. Just like you said."
His dad smiled at him, still stuck by the doorway.
"Proud of you, mate. Worst bit's over."
Harry nodded, said nothing, and thought, is it though.