Chapter Text
There is a deep longing within you,
To care and to heal.
Here, on vile ground,
Is where you find the most damaged soul of all.
But, perhaps it will be yours that suffers most.
The Azkaban Secure Facility for the Criminally Insane was a foreboding place, to say the least. It stood as a tall, dark and imposing structure in the middle of nowhere, a blight on the British countryside, seemingly infecting the very ground it stood on with its insidious nature. The walls were high, with very few windows, and the ones that were there were small and plastered over with thick iron bars. It was a tower of the highest security, housing the most dangerous and volatile prisoners in England, with a few other criminals from around Europe, coming from countries that simply didn’t have the ability to take on such aggressive and challenging prisoners. All of the inmates were both dangerous, and lacking in sanity – completely unable to distinguish between fiction and reality.
The drive up to Azkaban is long, winding, and takes you along a number of tiny backroads that are exceptionally difficult to navigate. The idyllic countryside slowly becomes more sinister the nearer you get to it, changing seamlessly from beautiful trees and fauna to dead, rotting trees with gnarled branches, twisting desperately towards the sky like they were trying fruitlessly to escape from the grounds themselves, and reach towards heaven, to God’s salvation.
The driveway is just as long and winding as the rest of the journey. In the very distance, you can see the dark, towering structure casting a shadow over the grounds. Barbed iron gates with ‘Azkaban’ on them in swirly silvery lettering bar you from driving up. The gates are pasted with warnings, of the dangerous criminals, of CCTV, and of armed guards. The precautions they take to keep guests and faculty safe seemed adequate when you applied for the job, but now, nothing seemed quite enough. Not when you can feel the darkness radiating off it.
To the left of your car stands a few armed guards, hardened and haughty, surveying you with suspicion as you roll down your window, flashing them a smile before quickly realising that they weren’t the type to smile back.
“Name and identification.” One barks at you, clutching his weapon tightly, lifting the barrel of the gun up, slightly towards you in a manner that is clearly a veiled threat. You swallow, making a choked, panicked sound at the back of your throat. That kind of threat isn’t to be taken lightly. Especially not here. None of the guards would have any qualms with putting a piece of lead through your skull for stepping a toe out of line.
You lean over to the passenger seat, rooting around in your handbag before emerging with your driver’s license, handing it carefully over to him.
He scrutinises it, his narrowed eyes darting between you and the license. “And what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
You don’t even find the remark offensive. Azkaban isn’t really the type of place one would typically see a young woman strutting into. Not unless she was insane and a dangerous criminal, of course. But then she probably wouldn’t be strutting – she would be being dragged through the halls, her hands cuffed and probably laughing manically because of how out of her mind she is.
“I’m Doctor L/N.” You clarify. “I’m here to assist Doctor McGonagall’s psychiatric team.”
He nods, handing you back your license. “Be careful, ma’am. Stay close to the guards. I wouldn’t want to see you leave here in a body bag.”
You merely nod, inhaling a shaky breath as you return your license to your handbag, and drive up through the now open gates. They close swiftly behind you, shutting with a thunderous bang.
The first person to greet you as you step out of your car, hoisting your handbag up to your shoulder, is of course, Doctor McGonagall.
She looks severe. You instantly get the impression she’s authoritative, stern and unyielding. There are deep, tired, aging lines around the corners of her eyes and her lips are pursed into a thin line – she’s clearly displeased about something, but you can’t quite discern what. You haven’t known her nearly long enough to risk hazarding a guess. You’ve arrived promptly, so you know it can’t be that, at the very least. Her greying hair is pulled back into a tight bun, small wisps escaping from it, blown about in the harsh wind.
“Doctor McGonagall.” You greet her professionally. You push back a flinch at her weary gaze. It simply won’t do for you to be offending or displeasing your new boss on the very first day. Especially not if you’re looking to get a glowing recommendation from her.
“It’s good to have the opportunity to see you, Doctor L/N.” She says, welcoming you with a friendly, but firm handshake. “I would like to congratulate you on your doctorate. Though, I must say I was surprised when I discovered anyone would decide they wanted to work with prisoners here. It came as a great shock.” Her accent is thick, and deeply Scottish, initially seemingly genial, and then twisting into something bitter as she finished her sentence.
You smile. “I’d always wanted to help people, and well…”
“The patients here need it the most.” McGonagall finishes for you. “Very admirable. Though, I simply must warn you that the tasks that lie ahead of you are not for the faint of heart. The patients here are extremely disturbed, and will require the utmost care and attention. I would not judge you for a second if you choose to drop out.”
“Of course, Doctor McGonagall. I understand completely.”
“Good, good.” She says, resting the palm of her hand on your shoulder as she begins to guide you towards the facility. “I think it’s time you meet your fellow staff, and I give you the tour. Azkaban’s environment takes some getting used to before one can truly treat their patients.”
X
The second time you found yourself entering Azkaban didn’t feel any less ominous than the first time. It was like a cloud of darkness hung over it, smothering any light that dared try to exist within it. Perhaps that was what had happened to the light in Doctor McGonagall’s eyes – it had simply been smothered.
The corridors were winding, and dimly lit, guards stationed outside of every room. Azkaban employed the most guards worldwide, having an almost one to one patient to guard ratio. When you had first learned that, you thought it was cruel, unnecessary and dehumanising. Now, you were grateful.
There was always seemingly some significant level of unease in Azkaban, but at least now there were people willing to protect you there. It was hard to imagine that anyone truly, entirely human could even exist there without harbouring a darkness reminiscent of the facility’s own. Without becoming as dark as the ground that Azkaban cursed.
You had read through your patient’s file extensively, bordering on obsessively, committing every little detail to memory. For now, McGonagall had only seen fit to assign you one patient, supplementing any free time you may have with paperwork. She said it was easy to get overwhelmed when treating a plethora of patients in such deteriorated conditions. You could agree, though something about it made you bitter that you were presumed to have a weakness at all. Seemingly recognising this, McGonagall handed you one of her own patients, someone that a previous co-worker of hers had been treating since the patient were a child. She seemed nervous handing the file to you, and it was finally placed in your hands with the firm reassurance that you were free to request another patient.
The patient was named Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was a murderer, clinically insane, and had been suffering from complex delusions since childhood. It tugged at your heartstrings – he seemed so confused in his testimony, convinced that he was living out some fairy tale in which he was supreme, killing a young girl when he was just sixteen years old, members of his family later that year, and an elderly woman he had met through work.
It was tragic. A poor boy living in an orphanage, mentally ill and struggling to discern between reality and fiction. It was horrible that people had died, and even more horrible still that there was little hope of treating him.
Eventually you reached his cell, room number ninety-one in the facility – one on the fourth floor, without a window.
“I’m here for Tom Riddle.” You told the guard outside of his cell, flashing an I.D. badge at him, given to you by McGonagall the day before that identified you as one of the staff.
The guard nods, silently opening the door for you with a key on his belt, letting you enter the room alone. They said Tom Riddle wasn’t dangerous anymore. He hadn’t attempted another violent act since the murder of his father and grandparents, and Dumbledore had never once requested that guards be present during his therapy.
“Hello, Mr. Riddle.” You greet. The room is dark, with no natural lighting and it’s cold, colder than the rest of Azkaban had been.
You can see his silhouette, dark and inquisitive as he tilts his head. He’s been waiting, you can tell. Sat deathly still on one of the chairs, staring blankly ahead.
“May I turn the light on?” You ask, bordering on tentatively, lest you spook him. Sometimes it was best to treat patients you didn’t know, especially with ones who had violent pasts, like predators, approaching them slowly and carefully, assessing the situation all the while.
“Of course.” He says. He has a deep voice, one of those with eloquent tones that give you the sense he’s both well-spoken and assertive.
You flip the switch, a subtle click echoing in the quiet room. The room is still relatively dark, especially in comparison with natural lighting, but this time, you can see him.
He’s not quite what you expected and you try not to let it show on your face. He’s devastatingly handsome, with perfectly coiffed brunette curls, sharp cheekbones, and inquisitive blue-green eyes. He doesn’t look like how you imagined – before, he was just a number on a piece of paper, just a shadow in a dark room. And now he’s looking right at you.
“I’ll be taking over your treatment for now. I want to let you know, I’ve reviewed your file. But, I hold none of your actions against you. I’m here to help you – never to judge you.” You say, seating yourself opposite him.
His eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches ever so slightly. He looks suspicious, more suspicious than you’re comfortable with – he’s not the average patient you treat, and you know that, but it’s different seeing it in action.
“I understand.” He says, a slight scoff permeating his voice, bordering on mocking. The vitriol in his eyes doesn’t seem to quite match his sculpted face – it’s wrong, uncanny. There’s that overlying look of an attempt to be sincere. It’s strange. Abnormal.
You swallow, your hands clutching tighter around his file. “That’s good to hear. I understand it will be difficult for you to come to trust me. But, I hope we can work towards building a strong relationship, where you feel comfortable enough to share your thoughts with me.” It is crucial for you to establish rapport with him. It’s the most important aspect of this.
Tom nods, still looking vaguely suspicious as he looks you up and down. “Will you tell me something, Doctor?”
“I will try to be as honest with you as possible, but you must understand there are some things I simply cannot disclose to my patient.” Is how you answer. It’s both part of your training and Azkaban policy. It’s important for you to come across as open, honest, a trustworthy figure in his life. But, at the same time, you cannot compromise any agreements you have with your employer.
“Naturally.” He replies, cool and collected, and again it surprises you how coherent he is, for a man so deluded. “Would you please tell me what’s in my file?”
It’s not an entirely unexpected question. It is perfectly normal for a patient to want to know exactly what information their caregiver has about them. But it’s the way that he says it that has you on edge. He sounds insecure – like he’s at a disadvantage, and completely unfamiliar with what you may know about him. “Why? What do you think is in there?” You ask.
“I do wonder – what have they told you?” He asks, leaning forward. There’s the subtle implication that the information is inaccurate. It’s likely he thinks it is. “That I was a poor little orphan boy with a brilliant mind that decayed into a psychotic mess?” It is really what they told you. Tom Riddle was a poor little orphan, delusional, and treated by one Doctor Dumbledore, gradually spiralling in his false reality until he killed and killed again. He doesn’t look like a decayed psychotic mess. That’s the hard part. Tom Riddle looks gorgeous, dark and handsome and well spoken. He’s not the image that appears in your mind when you think of a killer.
“Is that how you perceive yourself?” You ask. You already know it’s not. He’s a narcissist, and lacking in sanity, to boot. He created a false world to tear it apart and rule it. He would never perceive himself as anything less than godlike. You know that.
He takes in a deep breath. “Oh, no. I think that’s how others perceive me. I would never go so far as to say that my mind decayed. I became stronger. Better.” Tom’s jaw clenches, and he’s inspecting you now. Like you’re the patient and he’s checking for signs you’re reacting to therapy.
You hum, chewing at the inside of your cheek. “How would you say you achieved that?”
And then, Tom looks so, so cautious. Like he’s walking a landmine. In his head he probably is. “In ways that other people would consider the worst. The most sinful. The most horrific.”
There it is – some level of acknowledgement of his violence. You hadn’t really expected to get an admission like that so early on. Especially not during your first meeting with him. There’s the separation between himself and others, and it’s bordering on arrogant.
“And these terrible, sinful, horrific things made you stronger?”
“Absolutely.” His answer is quick, like it’s the first thing to tumble out of his mouth. “I’d never been so great as I was when I was at my worst.”
“How whimsical.” You reply, almost without meaning to. He didn’t consider his real murders his ‘worst’, by which he meant his grandest achievements. The crimes he was really proud of was a fictional attempted genocide of a class of magical people called ‘muggleborns.’
Tom looks smug then, relaxing slightly into his seat. Doctor McGonagall had told you that Tom thought highly of himself – giving himself an authority position in his delusion. “I suppose I’d always known – I could tell I was different from others. Better. More. It wasn’t until I met Dumbledore that I started to put everything together and discover how powerful I really was.”
Then he seems amused, a small smile quirking up the corners of his lips. “I doubt most people would see it that way. Would you mind reading me some of it? I’m terribly curious.”
He really does sound, rather convincingly, like he has no idea what his file could contain. Like he’s eager to read everything about himself. It’s horribly self-centred, and possibly rooted deeply in the desire to either relive his crimes or to convince himself that they really happened.
“I simply can’t relay to you notes from your previous psychiatrists. I can, however, remind you of the crimes you are serving time for.” You respond.
“Please do.” Tom implores you, eyeing the folder as you flick it open, practically staring holes into it.
You clear your throat. It makes you feel uneasy – relaying a list of his own crimes to him. He was described time and time again as a narcissist. These would be like miniature achievements next to his imagined genocide. There was also the issue of how he would react to not having said imagined genocide read out to him. “Multiple counts of murder in the first degree, including your paternal grandparents and father, a fourteen year old girl and an elderly woman.”
“Ah of course.” He simply nods, like all the pieces of some grand puzzle have slid into place. It’s terrible. You should have been expecting some kind of fit, wherein he would reject the charges by simply stating that he had done worse, more impressive crimes, but, no. His delusion, this monstrous world of lies wherein he is the villain and ruler, has become so all-encompassing he appears to immediately be able to rationalise it.
“Are those heavy topics for you?” You ask. You know what the answer will be. A ‘no’. They shouldn’t be, if he’s as far gone as his previous psychiatrists have declared him.
Tom’s brow furrows, his jaw ticking slightly. “I’m not particularly sure. At times they are, and I feel this crushing guilt – but now, I have to ask, should they be?” There’s a lot for you to unpack in that response alone. There’s the initial indication of emotion, and the acknowledgement that he does in fact feel guilt for his crimes. But, you can’t tell if he’s lying or not. Not yet, at least. It’s an interesting response, if truthful. Showing a range of emotion that is drastically different from one moment to another – likely depending on how deep into his delusion he is, and how far enveloped into the Lord Voldemort persona he is.
“How would you describe your relationship with your past psychiatrists? Doctors McGonagall and Tonks? And, of course, your work with Counsellor Shacklebolt?” You enquire, changing the subject away from philosophical, moral topics, to something of more use to you now.
“I don’t feel they understood me incredibly well. I – I never really felt a connection with them. There wasn’t – I’m sorry. I don’t feel I’m explaining this well at all.” Tom stutters out, his shoulders drooping. It’s perhaps the most candid he’s been so far, the most human. It’s almost endearing, despite the horrific acts attributed to him. It’s like he’s trying to get better, and it does spark some god-forsaken ache in your heart.
You nod, leaning forwards. “That’s perfectly fine. Would you describe yourself as perfectly honest in their care?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t really trust them. It was like I was an animal in a zoo. To be frank with you, Doctor L/N, I feel that I can trust you far more than I can trust them.” Tom’s voice is almost a hoarse whisper, tortured and lost, coaxing forwards another tug in your chest.
“How do you feel about Azkaban?”
His head snaps up, his eyes narrowed into thin slits for just a second. It’s enough for you to feel the physical force of the malice he radiates after the word ‘Azkaban’ reaches his ears. “It’s impossible for me to like it, if that’s what you mean. I haven’t been outside since I arrived – the sun’s been gone for so long. I never know what time of day it is. There’s nothing to do. I know some people have very strong opinions that I deserve this, but it truly is inhumane.”
“How terrible.” Is your reply, barely a murmur, almost lost to even your own ears. It fills you with a kind of sorrow – pity for him. He’s the epitome of wasted potential, of a crisis that could have been averted, and now he’s a wraith, wasting away in an institution that seems to violate almost every single piece of human rights legislation.
“I wouldn’t dare describe it as anything else.” Tom scoffs, though this time it’s more natural and witty. “May I ask you something, Doctor?”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “I’m sure you know my rules for asking questions by now.”
He nods. “Of course. Nothing personal, and nothing my previous psychiatrists wouldn’t want you to let me know.” There was never any chance he hadn’t picked up on a single thing you said. He was delusional, but never anything less than strikingly intelligent.
“Precisely.”
The concern returns to Tom’s features, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, biting at the flesh lightly. “Are you planning on sticking around for the long haul? Should I open up to you? Are you here to help me? Truly help?” It’s a devastating question.
You answer honestly, staring deeply into his eyes. “Absolutely.”
X
The next morning you found yourself in Doctor McGonagall’s office, a once humble room that had been turned into something bordering on an interior designer’s worst nightmare. With one wall plastered with ugly tartan wallpaper, resembling festive Christmas paper at best, and at worst a picnic blanket duct taped to the wall. There were several pictures strewn about the desk, some of a wise-looking cat, and others of people. Some of whom you recognised as the colleagues you met yesterday.
If there was a place in the world that did not need tartan wallpaper, it was Azkaban. Though, somehow you couldn’t really find it within yourself to begrudge her that if it made her happy. Happiness seemed to be in very short supply.
“Doctor L/N!” She greets you warmly. She gestures to the horrifically patterned seat opposite hers, separated only by her desk. “Please, take a seat.”
You sit down awkwardly. “You wanted to see me, Doctor McGonagall?”
“Yes, my dear. How was your first session with Mr. Riddle?” She’s concerned, extremely so. There’s worry in her voice, and dark circles under her eyes like she’s lost sleep from the mere thought of it.
“Relatively short.” You answer with a shrug. “I didn’t want to overwhelm him. My priorities now are gaining an understanding of his delusions and establishing rapport with him. From there, I can more towards determining the most effective strategies to use and actually implementing them in his treatment.”
She nods, looking relieved. “Good. Just like I taught you. I must admit, I was concerned I had given you something too hard to handle. There isn’t much hope for somebody like Mr. Riddle. He’s been called a cold-blooded killer before.”
“He deserves compassion just as much as everybody else.” You respond softly. “He’s very troubled. He’s had a hard life. I’ve read through his file, but I can’t find much about his family, aside from the fact that he killed his paternal grandparents and father. And of course, the two women.”
McGonagall looks grave, her brow furrowed and her mouth setting into a thin line. “Mr. Riddle was, as you know, raised in Wool’s Orphanage in London. His mother, Merope Gaunt, unfortunately died giving birth to him. Merope herself came from a troubled family, one riddled with incest, wherein she was sexually assaulted by her father and brother, had a lack of education, and suffered from clear abuse. His father was tragically abducted, held captive and raped by Merope – he eventually escaped whilst she was pregnant.”
You’re struck dumb by it, your mouth hanging open, before you regain your composure. “Oh, God, how terrible. That’s so awful.”
“Truly, a harrowing beginning to one’s life.” McGonagall supplies. “Mr. Riddle has suffered extensively throughout his life – made to be an outsider, though that does not excuse his actions. He still brutally murdered a classmate, a young girl who was just fourteen years old and had her whole life ahead of her, before going to meet his father and slaughtering the remainders of his family.”
“I just want to understand,” Your voice is barely a whisper. “It’s just – how could it possibly get so extensive if he was being treated from such a young age?”
McGonagall sighed, her turned downwards, avoiding your awaiting gaze. “Mr. Riddle was treated as a child by one of my closest associates, Doctor Dumbledore. Doctor Dumbledore was well known, and well liked, but never perfect. He made many a mistake, and I fear Mr. Riddle became the greatest of all. Doctor Dumbledore failed to prevent Mr. Riddle’s delusions, and in fact made them much worse, eventually he himself became a part of the fantasy.”
You flinch backwards – your reaction is visceral. It shook you to the core, like an internal earthquake, dislodging every thought you’d had about him and cruelly shattering them to pieces. He’d gotten help, and been failed time and time again.
Albus Dumbledore was an exceptional Doctor, according to all of your colleagues – the top of his field, and he had been a teacher, a mentor to many of the staff. You’d never really thought of him as capable of failure from what you had heard of him. He was only human, after all. But so was Tom, lost in the tide of layered delusions, trapped in his own mind.
“Oh, Tom.” You whispered, largely to yourself.
X
The winding corridors were just as dark, cold and foreboding the second time you made your way through them to Tom’s cell. Some of the guards would greet you with a nod of their head, which you were quickly learning was considered affectionate for Azkaban. Most of them were hard-faced, swathed in their bulking black tactical gear, gripping weapons, every muscle in their bodies tense, waiting for an attack. You’d been assured it was safe, of course. How could it not be? Azkaban was practically a fortress, so extensive in its aggression that it drove the empathy out of anybody inside. Though, you did have to wonder if the patients – the prisoners, you sometimes heard them called, and in a way, it was the most accurate term of all – had ever attempted a mutiny, staged a coup to overwhelm the guards.
The second time you entered Tom Riddle’s cell, the light was already on, and he was staring at you, hard. His fingers, long, elegant, like a piano player’s, were drumming rhythmically against the armrest of his chair. Today you could see it – the lighting was the best it had been – there was something behind his eyes, something not quite right.
“Hello, Mr. Riddle.” You greet, forcing your lips to quirk up in an awkward movement masquerading as a smile. There was something behind his eyes, disturbing and unrelenting – the thought that a Doctor, someone like yourself, was the one to put it there plagued you.
“Good evening, Doctor L/N. Or is it morning? I can never quite tell. No clock and no windows, you see.” He replies. He’s still as devastatingly gorgeous as he was yesterday, welcoming you rather charismatically, though you can sense he’s bitter. You would be too. It seems rather unpalatable – though Azkaban itself obviously isn’t meant to be fun. It was designed for insane, dangerous criminals, but he doesn’t really fit that description. It doesn’t seem fair. Isn’t he already suffering enough?
“It’s the afternoon.” You reply, slightly unsteadily as you sat down.
He nods, his lips quirking upwards slightly. “Well then, good afternoon, Doctor LN.”
“How are you feeling?” You almost reach out to him, to grasp his hands, before you decide not to. You simply don’t know how he’d react. It almost makes you wince.
“I don’t know. I can never really tell here. The same as always, I suppose.” Tom shrugs nonchalantly, absent-mindedly picking at his nails. As if he’s not in Azkaban.
The room is so bare. There’s a complete lack of human kindness in this place. You can feel it in your bones. “It seems so… wrong that you don’t have anything here.” You say tentatively.
“I appreciate the sentiment. I do have a lot of questions for you, Doctor. Would you mind terribly if I asked some more?” He’s perked up now. He’s curious – and intelligent, too. Seemingly unnervingly so, particularly in the way he watches you, haunting pale eyes following you analytically.
“Normally it’s meant to be the other way around, you know.” You can’t help but say, more amused than exasperated.
“I realise that, but, you’re new to me, and well, I would like the ability to understand, on some level.” He ducks his head, and you’re inclined to believe he’s being shy.
“Of course. But I have questions for you, too. It is my job, after all.”
He makes a happy-sounding noise of acknowledgement, tilting his head up to meet your eyes inquisitively. “You’re new to Azkaban? Not just new to treating me?” He asks softly, and you recognise probing when you hear it. It’s like he’s analysing you, like you do to a patient. It’s strange. Off-putting, but it creates a buzz under your skin.
“Yes. You’re my only patient for now.” It’s true. And even then, Doctor McGonagall was reluctant about letting you treat him. For your own safety, you supposed, although that seemed rather inefficient.
“Good. I, ah, I mean that some of the others here are quite aggressive.” He stumbles over his words slightly, simultaneously looking bashful and irked, like he’d given away something he didn’t mean to.
“Yes, I know.” You reply. Danger, danger, danger. How many times had you heard that word? It was woefully ominous. There really was nobody persuading you to stay – in fact, every single employee acted as if they were warning you, telling you to get out.
“Am I being given a diagnosis?” Tom eyes the folder suspiciously – it’s his file, and by the way his hands twitch slightly, you know he’s still curious about it.
You sigh. This is your least favourite part. “I have several that I’ve been recommended to give you. Truly, I was recommended to join another Institution, that you weren’t even fit for treatment. You seem perfectly lucid right now.”
“I would agree with that.” He huffs out, a sound that’s halfway between an incredulous laugh and anger.
“Is that all, Mr. Riddle?”
“Not quite, Doctor. And all I was charged with is a few counts of murder?” He raises an eyebrow, looking at the file with suspicion. You really, really wish you could roll your eyes. All? Though, it makes sense that he’s suspicious because he’s under the impression he’s literally attempted genocide, it’s the way that he sounds bored that gets under your skin. He’s so pretty, borderline ethereal under the flickering light, but he’s still a murderer. He’s still delusional. And he’s your patient, yours to heal.
“Yes. As far as I, or the courts, are aware, that’s your only crime.” Is how you reply, after a brief floundering moment.
“Alright then. What is it that you think is wrong with me?” He looks at you intensely. Scrutinising you. It’s borderline exhilarating.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. But that’s not what you were asking really, was it? You want to know what diagnosis I’ve been recommended to give you.” Now you’re the one to raise an eyebrow at him. Because this whole time, he’s been interested in you, yes, but mostly what you know. About Azkaban, and your role as his doctor. You’re half torn between giving him the benefit of the doubt, or treating him with as much suspicion as he’s treating you.
“I do, I really do, Doctor.” And he grins, like he’s thrilled that you understood him. Like he’s face to face with another predator.
“To put it simply, you’re delusional.”
“I assure you, I am in fact, not.” Tom scoffs indignantly.
It’s not a surprise he doesn’t think that. “How interesting. May I ask you a question, Mr. Riddle?”
“By all means.”
Now you feel like the fellow predator he was grinning at. “Do you like your name?”
Surprise flickers across his face, almost imperceptibly. “I have no particular attachment to it. Dreadfully common, and I’m named after my father. Whom you might recall, I also have no particular attachment to.”
“If you could change it, would you?” You lean forward, your voice lowering into a deep whisper.
“Oh, yes. Some people already knew me by a different name, though.”
“Lord Voldemort.” You say, almost wickedly, watching the recognition and understanding spread across his face.
“Oh, absolutely. You’re welcome to refer to me that way instead of ‘Mr.Riddle.’” His voice is somewhere between boastful and teasing. You don’t really know which you’d prefer it to be.
“I shan’t. Synonymous with power, giving yourself a title whilst turning your birth name into something better, something you prefer. It’s about transformation to you, then?”
“Evolution.” He whispers back to you, almost reverent.
“What would you say you evolved into?” You lean back in your chair, studying him carefully.
“To some, a monster, and to others, a leader. Either way, I became god.” He’s grinning again. Perhaps its not a grin, perhaps he’s baring his teeth. It’s so, so arrogant, pretentious, convoluted. But what else can you expect from a pretty boy that built a world to give himself power?
“Did you really? Do you think God becomes trapped?” Your response is borderline acidic. You know you’ve been touchy since he trivialised murder – he lacks sanity, you can’t expect anything less from him, but now it’s like you’re playing with each other, like two lions circling around an antelope, wondering who will leave with their prey.
“In his own creation? Of course. Isn’t that the terrible irony of it?” Tom’s leaning forwards, towards you, like he’s seen you in a new light.
“Would you call yourself religious?”
“God isn’t real. There are things much more powerful.” He says, and for a moment, you’re inclined to believe him, simply from the way he says it. Like its poetry.
“Like yourself?”
He nods. “Precisely, Doctor. You understand me on a level that the others never could.” Tom looks pleased, a smugness permeating his tone. Like you’ve pleasantly surprised him.
“I’m glad to hear that. You know, I had a conversation yesterday with Doctor McGonagall.”
“About me?” He doesn’t bother to look too surprised.
“Amongst other things. We were talking about the others – one in particular. Doctor Dumbledore.” You answer tentatively. It’s going to be a sensitive subject for him, you can sense it. As much as most murderers may act like they have emotions, they do. Sometimes they’re hidden very, very well. Or sometimes, they exist in abundance, but only in certain areas in life.
He snarls. “Dumbledore.” The sneer on his face is full of malice, his eyes blazing darkly with some form of sick victory.
“I understand that he met you as a child, to treat you.” You say slowly, treading carefully and constantly checking his expressions.
“I met him as a child, yes. I was eleven. To treat me? No. I thought he was, at first. Mrs. Cole, the matron at the orphanage, had sent doctors before. Priests, too. I only met him the once before I started school. He never did seem fond of me.” The hatred is there, the deep-rooted bitterness, too. But now he seems whimsical as he says it, like it’s nostalgic.
“Why would you say that was?”
“He thought I was stealing from the other kids.” The answer’s simple enough, but you don’t really see it. Tom wants power. That can happen through possession – but you can’t think of much in a run-down orphanage that would interest him enough.
“Were you?”
“Oh, yes. I never cared much for what they had, it was all useless garbage anyway. It was what it symbolised.” And there it was, the emergence of megalomania in his formative years. The orphanage was likely competitive, and he stole to maintain power, eventually finding more power and an escape through fantasy.
“Power. Did it help put you at the top of the hierarchy?” You ask.
“Somewhat. There were other techniques I favoured, though.” He begins to shrug, rolling his shoulders and relaxing.
“Like what?” It’s a morbid curiosity that’s driving you to ask. There’s no chance, not with him, that it would be reasonable or a regular response for a young child.
“I killed a boy’s bunny once, and left its body on his pillow case. There was blood everywhere. I didn’t know it had that much in it.” He says it strangely, with a slight frown, though there’s a certain fondness in his voice – pride.
“How did you kill it?”
“With my bare hands. There were other ways, too.”
You’re transfixed on him at this point, scared and almost in awe. “Did you hurt the other children?”
“Physically, no. Mentally, they were never quite the same after that, I don’t think.” He lets out a half-chuckle, biting his lip – and pride simply radiates from him. You’d read about an incident between himself and some younger children in a cave, who never spoke much afterwards.
You want to move the topic away from them. They were a minor incident – power over people, but not killing. That is far more significant. “When you killed the bunny, how did you feel?”
“I was angry, I killed it, and then I was powerful. There’s not much to feel.” It’s a plain response, marred by nonchalance. It relieves you to know that he feels anger, at least. Emotion is good, you tell yourself. You can work with emotion. Perhaps there’s some hope he does feel, and is instead just trapped in a delusion you can free him from.
“Oh, really?”
“There was a sense of enjoyment, too. Pride as well. It’s incredible to learn your own strength like that.” He says.
“And presumably, it’s also incredible to exert it over others?” You ask. As Lord Voldemort, he had created an entire class of people, an entire world, to have power over. You had to wonder if in this world of his murder wasn’t a moral problem – that he did really feel, have morals, but they were simply suppressed by his warped perception of reality.
“Absolutely. May I ask you a question, Doctor?”
You answer instantaneously. “Yes.”
He looks at you, pale eyes boring into yours heavily, like he’s looking through you, to some stain on your very soul. “Have you ever felt like you wanted to exert power over others? Being a doctor puts you in a position of power over your patients.” His voice is low, not threatening, but rather deep and throaty, like he’s asking you to confess your sins – not to condemn, not to tell you to recite ‘Hail Mary’s, but to celebrate.
“Are you asking me if I feel the urge to abuse you?” You’re not sure whether you should be hissing the question at him – as if he thinks you’re a terrible person, or whether you should be soft and concerned that he would ever come to think that. You aim for neutral, to come across evenly and calm, but rather it seems panicked.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did. It’s human nature to be pathetic, but a select few get the opportunity to be something more, to be powerful.” He brushes one of his hands against yours, seemingly accidentally, but it’s more of a caress, affectionate, worshipful. You didn’t pull away.
“And you see yourself as something more, don’t you?” You ask.
“Everyone sees me as something more.”
“Oh, I suppose they do.” You respond blithely. He sees himself as more than human. And everyone else sees him the same, as more than just human – as a twisted, evil mess of a man with a loose grip on reality, not as the superhuman wizard ruler he perceives himself to be.
“What is it that you think I deserve for my crimes?” Tom asks, abruptly.
You answer quickly. “Help.” There’s no other way to put it. He had so much potential, he has so much potential. Tom Riddle is a tragedy, one you’re becoming fond of. He stares at you with haunting eyes – his mind ravaged, and the potential good in him trapped. You merely have to be the one to free it, you’re beginning to see that now.
“From you?” He asks softly, reminiscent of yesterday’s conversation – like he needs constant reinforcement that you’re going to help. Like his expectation is that you’ll abandon him. You realise that it probably is his expectation, and you vow to be the exception.
“Always.”
“How kind of you, Doctor. I don’t think the other inmates are so lucky.” His eyes dart to the door distastefully.
You raise an eyebrow. “No?”
“I can hear them screaming, sometimes. Or laughing.” He doesn’t sound bothered by it either way – there’s no real concern for them, but rather a hint of annoyance at the noise. “You’ve never met any of them, have you?” He frowns, sounding slightly worried, his brow furrowing.
“No, I haven’t. I’ve met most of their doctors, though, and I can’t imagine any of them being uncompassionate.” You think back to meeting your co-workers on your very first day. Some of them were rather young, looking more like awkward teenagers, but their eyes were tired, like they’d been there a long time. Some of them were older, like Doctor McGonagall, who looked both wise and exhausted from the weight of carrying that wisdom.
“I’ve only met Shacklebolt, McGonagall and the Tonks lady. Presumably there are others?” He sounds disinterested, almost distasteful, towards his previous workers, but more curious as he asks about others. You don’t think much of it. Azkaban is a bland, lifeless place that is built like a mausoleum. Wanting human interaction and being interested in others is probably healthy.
“Yes, there are. I’ve never met any of their patients, though. I know that some can be quite… difficult.” You wince. You’ve heard the tales many a time, both cautionary tales and horror stories.
“That’s putting it mildly. I haven’t seen any of them in person since I first arrived here. We don’t get to interact with others.” He seems unbothered. You don’t even think he’d like to interact with any of the other patients. Tom likes intelligent, logical conversation. Something that others within Azkaban lack the ability to deliver. It was understandable, from a safety perspective, but so, so damaging. He was literally in solitary confinement.
It suddenly struck you, like a train hitting somebody jumping onto the tracks. With purpose and unbridled strength. You were really all that he had.
“God, it’s so wrong. The way this place is. I don’t understand how you can be expected to get better in an environment like this.” You practically think out loud.
“Do you think I will get better?” He asks, quieter than he’s been before. Like he’s afraid of something.
You do your best to look reassuring. “Absolutely. We can work together to make things better.”
“You have no idea just how much that means to me.”
X
The next morning you find yourself in a cramped room not far from Doctor McGonagall’s office.
“I think this should suffice.” She says, nodding at the room and declaring it appropriate despite how dilapidated it was. You do your best to smile, though it probably looks more like a grimace than a look of appreciation.
“Ah, yes, thank you.” You reply, your hands twitching around the files you were carrying as you looked at the absolute mess you had to clean up.
“Well then, I’ll let you get started, Doctor L/N.” The Scottish doctor says before promptly retreating.
You hadn’t even asked for an office. But apparently, Minerva, as she insisted you call her, thought that it was only right that you have a space of your own. Azkaban itself was borderline unholy ground, surrounded by decaying trees and resembling a tomb more than a prison, and so you knew not to expect much, but this office was really, really not ideal.
It was so, so tiny, and just about as terrifying as the rest of the facility. The walls were obviously black, the only source of light came from a single flickering lightbulb in the centre of the ceiling, hanging precariously from a fraying cord, and there were cobwebs littering the corners of the room. In addition to all of that, the desk looked like it was about to give in and the chairs resembled somebody’s final resting place.
Somewhat angrily, you slammed the files down onto the desk, which miraculously withheld the strain, and set to work, desperately trying to ignore the cloud of dust that bloomed from underneath the files.
After a few strenuous hours, the cobwebs, and all subsequent spiders, had been ruthlessly evicted, and most of the dust wiped away. The floor was still horrendously stained, and you were about to go searching for a mop.
And then, the clock struck two. The sound was, like everything else in Azkaban, mangled and out of tune. You decided to abort the mission to find a mop, instead gathering the files you needed back into your arms and tucking a pen behind your ear.
X
The guards are stationary, as always, not once even looking at you, hidden behind layers and layers of tactical gear. The door to Tom’s cell swings open, and you enter. It’s strange how much more at ease you feel despite having only met him twice. There’s something about Azkaban that softens you to any sort of human affection, you think.
He’s ready for you again, he looks awake, and strangely well-rested despite how difficult you think it must be to sleep in Azkaban. It always seems deathly silent when you’re just begging for some kind of noise, and surrounded by howling wind when you desire tranquillity.
“Doctor L/N. Good afternoon.” He greets you. There’s something about him today that’s putting you on edge.
“Mr. Riddle.” You nod, taking a seat opposite him. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, I would say I’m quite well. And yourself?” He asks.
“I’m well, thank you.” You reply, flicking a file open and quickly scanning the pages before closing it swiftly. “Are you ready to proceed?”
He nods. “Absolutely.”
“Today, I’d like to discuss –“ You begin.
Tom interrupts, stopping you with a raised hand. “I’d like to choose the topic, if you don’t mind.”
It’s domineering. He controls the narrative to extract information from you. It’s a habit of his that you’ve picked up on, and although you should probably be steering him back to your agenda, it’s simply so intriguing to see just where he wants to go.
“Not at all. Go ahead, please.” You reply.
“The guards.” He says abruptly, eyes darting to the doorway.
There’s always the possibility he’s trying to find a way to escape. “Yes? What about them?” You ask.
“How do you view them?”
That’s not the question you had been expecting. He should have been asking how many or what are they armed with? But he wants to know what you think, first and foremost.
“Normally, I’m meant to ask the patient questions.” You’re stalling and you know it. You can just sense that he thinks the answer you give will be important somehow, and you’re scrambling to fathom why. Nothing is coming to mind other than his delusion, which you will be trying not to encourage and not to disturb until you get a better grasp on his character.
He rolls his pretty eyes. “We both know I’m not your average patient.” Tom Riddle will always separate himself from others, of that you’re certain. “Would you answer me?”
You answer cautiously. “Well, at times I do feel like it’s overkill, with their guns and all that heavy black tactical gear. But, it’s for your protection as much as its for mine.”
“Doesn’t it feel wrong, though?” He doesn’t even blink at the way you describe them. You’ve just established there are a lot of them, and they’re well armed. He’s not bothered in the slightest. He’s gauging your response.
“Well, I can’t imagine they help foster a climate in which any of the patients here can truly heal, but there are dangerous inmates.” Is the honest answer you give, and once again it’s beginning to feel like you’re under examination – the pale eyes of your own patient scrutinising every word that leaves your mouth, and every minute twitch of your face.
“Doesn’t it feel like you’re losing your soul to this place?” He presses on. For a moment you think he may reach out for you. “To the dementors?”
Dementors, he says. It’s one more fragment of his delusion. A great tragedy.
“I suppose. Azkaban is far from pleasant.” You answer, pausing for a moment as you consider your next move. Merely talking to him is like competing against a master chess player – like you’re constantly trying to predict his next move, but he’s always steps ahead. “How would you describe the dementors?”
“Large. Spectral. Hungry.” He says, watching you so, so intently that you were tempted to cease even breathing. His eyes were wide, his voice low, and ravenous.
“Hm.” You merely nod, trying to remain impassive. You don’t particularly trust yourself to react in any other way.
“It feels like they’re always watching. Always waiting. To feast, that is. They’ll serve whoever feeds them the most.” He elaborates, lips quirking upwards for barely a second. You wonder if he related to that. That level of extreme ambition, of desperation for power.
“Do you disagree with that ideology?”
He raises an eyebrow at you inquisitively. “Oh, not at all. It’s only logical, after all. It’s disloyalty that I despise.”
That doesn’t exactly send you into shock. He values himself above all else, and then those who support him in his endeavour for power, though it’s debatable how much he can truly care for them. There’s always that fleeting hope within you that he does care, and it’s just imprisoned by the delusion.
“Really?”
“There’s not much worse than a traitor.” He says bitterly, scoffing. His eyes flash and his lips curl up into a sneer. Like there’s a personal vendetta there, lying in wait.
“Would you say you have many people loyal to you?” Is what you ask next. You’re trying to guide the conversation, to lead on to what you really want to know about – his need for deference.
“I’m not sure how many remain or how many were even mine in the first place.” He shrugs, though the sneer doesn’t entirely leave his fine features. He abruptly turns his head away from you, maintaining his gaze on you in his peripheral vision. “Are you loyal to me, Doctor?”
“How do you mean, Mr. Riddle?” You try very, very hard not to stumble over your words.
“You can call me Tom.” He says calmly. It catches you even more off guard. He hates his name. You’re not quite sure where you stand with him if he’s comfortable with you using it. “But, of course, you know there’s always other things I prefer to be called.”
“I’m sure.”
“I don’t think you want to give me the power.” He tells you confidently, almost shrugging it off, dismissive of the fact that you’re not using his title. It’s not how you expect him to behave. “But, what I mean, of course, is out of all the people here in Azkaban, who are you most loyal to?”
You frown. “I’m not sure I understand you.”
He wants something from you. He seemingly always does, though there’s a rare few moments when he looks either vulnerable or vicious.
“Could you ever bring yourself to stand at the side of somebody who is, in your opinion, utterly morally reprehensible, if you found out that everything you’d ever loved was a lie?” Tom looks enraptured by you, captivated almost.
You don’t even know how to answer him. You don’t even know what answer he’s seeking and whether giving it to him is a good thing or not. “I’m not sure. How terrible a lie do you mean?”
Either way, he’s holding your attention just as tightly as you’re holding his.
“A complete shattering of your reality.” He whispers, eyes darkening.
You don’t even know how to answer that question. You can’t really say how you’d react in that situation, neither can you truly understand his insinuations. “Perhaps, then. May I ask you a question?”
He chuckles. “As we’ve already established, that is your job, Doctor.”
His response is more youthful than you’ve come to expect from him. He’s all over the place, swinging between incredibly predictable, arrogant and narcissistic to something far more intriguing. A new breed of creature displaying its fangs for you to catalogue.
Still, you wrestle with the urge to roll your eyes, before you refocus. Now it’s time for you to shift the narrative entirely, to tear the topic away from one of his design and find out what you need to know, to test the extent of his fantasy. “Of course. I want to ask you about something in particular, a group of individuals, referred to here as –“
“My death eaters?” He laughs darkly, bordering on manic for a mere second. The grin remains on his face even after the laugher has died.
The name of his ‘soldiers’ alone is rather uncreative, you think. For a man that managed to construct an entirely new reality to give himself more power, there was a certain level of artistic talent he lacked. It just seemed so bland, so wasted, to name your murder servants something as trivial as death eaters.
“Yes. Would you like to tell me about them?” You ask.
The grin doesn’t once fade or flicker. It’s predatory. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes you feel like you’re being hunted. “They served me. I was their master.”
He’s proud, oh so proud, of his fictional genocide and the servants he had help carry it out.
You can’t help but be petty about it, lashing back at him, probably harsher than you should be, vindictively feeling like if you attack his persona, this grandiose illusion, enough times, it will simply break down. “And where are they now?”
He raises an eyebrow momentarily. “It’s a lesson in loyalty, I suppose. Perhaps some are in the wind. Perhaps some are six feet under. Perhaps they’re even here.”
“Here?” You’re not sure whether you want to laugh or cry. Tom says it like a threat. But you know that he’s much further gone than you’d anticipated. Azkaban was part of his delusion now, too.
“Oh, yes. Doctor, I’m beginning to realise there’s a great deal you don’t know about Azkaban.” He clicks his tongue disappointedly, even shaking his head slightly.
“Like what, Tom?” You ask with narrowed eyes.
“Where do you think we are, right now?”
“The west midlands.”
He sighs, theatrically tired. “Oh, Doctor. My darling doctor. You’ve been deceived.”
Tom leans back in his chair dramatically, leaning his cheek into his fist as he stares at you. His entire demeanour is throwing you off – he’s so inconsistent. He’s monitoring you just as closely as you’re monitoring him, practically begging for you to ask him to elaborate.
It doesn’t take long for you to give in. “Deceived, Tom?”
“Oh yes, dreadfully so. I’m not sure why.” His voice turns from airy to frustrated, his knuckles turning white as he clenches them.
“And where do you think we are?” You want to understand. You really do, but you’re beginning to dread the answer. As eloquent and pretty as he may be, he’s also drowning in delusion, completely trapped not only in Azkaban but also in his wizarding world.
“The centre of the Atlantic.” He answers.
The silence was deafening. The sound of a pin drop would be capable of rupturing your ear drums. You try not to let your jaw drop or your eyes bulge.
You inhale deeply, desperately. “Really? You’re absolutely certain?”
It takes you a few seconds of floundering to come up with an explanation. He’s trying to rationalise why he can’t break out, most likely. Still, it does momentarily disorientate you. It means he likely experiences auditory hallucinations – perhaps a repetitive sound of waves crashing against the walls.
“Positive. And those prison guards?” He leans forwards, whispering to you conspiratorially. There’s something mesmerising about the way he speaks, so persuasive, despite how utterly tragic it is.
“Yes?”
“They’re wraiths called dementors. They want to feast on your soul. Those other prisoners were once all my death eaters.”
You struggle to find a way to react. You have to be non-judgemental. Moderate. You’re not struggling with some great judgement you have about him, but rather with how to even approach somebody like him. It’s dangerous to encourage or to criticise his delusions. “I don’t – “
Thankfully, he interrupts you and you don’t have to formulate a response. “You’re being lied to. I think I may be the only one being honest here. The reason why is eluding me. But, isn’t it intriguing. I’m far from insane, Doctor. I think you know that by now.”
The problem really is that you don’t know that. He’s so unpredictable, so wildly varied in his behaviour and speech that you can’t tell if he’s truly, meaningfully lucid or not.
It makes you want to retreat, even if it means you will be returning to your office. “I think you’ve become over excited, or that I may have stressed you out. I apologise. Perhaps we should end today’s session early.”
He nods simply. “I’m sure it’s been quite a shock to you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you needed time to gather your thoughts. But please – promise me.” The desperation, the pleading in his tone makes you wilt.
“Yes?” You ask, standing up and quickly gathering the files into your arms.
“Promise me you’ll at least look for the signs you’re being lied to.”
He sounds broken. Maybe it breaks you, too.
“I – alright.”
There is a deep rot within him,
One that has been writhing in his blood since the day he was born.
The rot had spread, and blood rose in its wake.
Now he was trapped between a torrent of waves,
And a sea of swarming black wraiths.
He was imprisoned in Azkaban,
But did not truly know the meaning of captivity until he laid eyes on you.