"To some, a monster, and to others, a leader. Either way, I became god."
"Did you really? Do you think God becomes trapped?"
Having just earned your doctorate, you decide to work in the Azkaban Secure Facility for the Criminally Insane. There, you...
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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.
